


No Poison in my Bones

by sunshinewinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Soulbonds, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Dean, Brother Feels, Caretaker Dean, Caring Dean, Comforting Dean, Dean Realizes His Feelings For Castiel, Dean Takes Care of Castiel, Dean is a Softie, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Handprint Kink, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loving Dean, M/M, Major Character Injury, Overprotective Dean, Poison, Poisoned Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Knows, Sick Castiel, Sickfic, Soul Bond, Soul Sex, Temporary Character Death, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Witches, Worried Dean, poisoned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a hunt, Castiel gets poisoned by a witch with a sick sense of humor. During his hunt for a cure, Dean figures out what all of his feelings for the angel have been amounting to, and realizes he is running out of time to act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get Your Facts Straight

Title from the Ellie Goulding song ‘Home’

 

“Sammy! Get your ass out here! We’re about to go!” Dean yells, twisting the key in the ignition, causing the Impala’s engine to roar to life. The throaty rumble is music to Dean’s ears, but that doesn’t stop him from blasting an AC/DC song. As he waits for his brother to get in the car, he hits the steering wheel in time with the song’s rhythm, bobbing his head and closing his eyes. Dean hears the door open, and Sam is folding himself in behind the dash to ride shotgun, slinging his black dufflebag into the back seat to join Dean’s. Sam smirks and chuckles at his brother, who is now dramatically banging on the steering wheel and singing along with the guitar solo.  
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Sam notes, grinning as Dean rolls his eyes and keeps air-drumming.  
“‘Course I am. Anytime we get to gank a witch I’m happy. Those things are the worst, man, I swear. Plus, we have a long drive ahead of us, and I’ve been itching to get out of here and on the road again,” Dean justifies, turning in his seat to see out the back windshield as he backs out of the motel parking lot. 

Being out on the open road is home to the Winchesters. The two of them in Dean’s baby, accompanied by the growl of her engine and the resonating whir of tires on asphalt is what freedom feels like. The road blurring by in the rearview mirror, a smear of greens and blacks and browns, makes Dean feel in control, makes him feel exhilarated. It’s a like a fresh start each time, where they leave the stresses of the last hunt behind and can focus on what lies ahead. Dean can’t help but turn and smile at his brother, feeling like things are exactly where and what they should be when he is behind the wheel, his brother riding shotgun, and a long stretch of nearly vacant road ahead of them. So why does there feel like there is some little but significant piece missing?

“Diner up ahead,” Sam remarks, gesturing to an exit sign marking a turn off. Dean slows and takes the narrower road, getting off the main stretch, and starts searching among the various stores, gas stations, and houses for the diner. His mind is only half there, the other half gingerly prodding at why the picture feels incomplete when it should be how it is. Dean’s not one for deep introspection, and he’s not about to start now. They pull into an empty parking space outside a typical no-name diner, one with a glowing neon red sign in the window advertising ‘ample portions’. Dean kills the engine and him and Sam swing the doors out of their way and head into the warmly-lit diner. They take a seat at a booth table, Sam already inserting all their various chargers into the electrical outlet and plugging in their phones and his laptop. 

“What’s on your mind, Dean? Out of nowhere you just got all mopey or something. What’s up?” Sam asks, finishing up plugging in the other emergency phones. Dean glares at his brother, rubbing his temples with his index fingers as if to ward off a headache.  
“Nothing, shut up and figure out what rabbit food you’re gonna order,” Dean insists, making a point to look engrossed in the menu so Sam will stop badgering him with all his questions. Sam sighs wearily but looks through the assortment of items. Even though Sam let it drop (at least for now), what he said still begs the question of what is making him feel out of place when things are looking up. He figures he should at least know, even if he doesn’t talk about it with his brother. A waitress with bright red lipstick and wrinkles around her mouth and eyes asks what they’d like, her pen poised above a worn notebook.  
“I’ll have a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a beer.” Dean says, closing his menu and sliding it over. The waitress nods, scribbling it down, then looks pointedly at Sam.  
“I’ll have a grilled chicken salad and a beer too,” Sam adds, handing her his menu. She smiles and says she’ll be back with the food shortly, and sweeps up their menus and leaves. 

It’s at that moment Dean figures out what’s on his mind, when he wants to recommend that his brother and Castiel try some of the cherry pie Dean plans on ordering to go. 

Cas. Cas is what is missing from the picture. 

 

“I miss Cas,” Dean blurts out, with the two of them back on the road and heading for downtown Sandy, Oregon, in hopes of finding where the witch is hiding out. Dean is shocked the words actually made it past his lips; he sure as hell hadn’t intended to say that. But it’s out of his mouth now, and Sam clearly wasn’t going to let this slide. Dean does the best he can to cover up the unusual and unforeseen display of emotion, stumbling over his words in his hurry to get them all out. “I mean like where is the guy? We haven’t seen him in forever. Do you think he’s dealing with stuff going on upstairs?” The response he gets from Sam is a deep look that seems to see straight past everything, and Sam looks infinitely wise, like he knows things even Dean doesn’t know about himself. Finally, Sam eases the tension mounting and looks back out the window.  
“Maybe you should pray to him and ask for some backup on this hunt,” Sam suggests.

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightens and he peers through the windshield speculatively. It’s starting to pour, and he has the windshield wipers up on full to combat the raindrops obscuring his view of the road. Sometimes how perceptive and analytical his brother is scares him. He considers the possibility that maybe Sam does see more than Dean is willing to admit is there. “I don’t wanna bother him. It’s just one witch, nothing we haven’t dealt with fine on our own before,” Dean argues half-heartedly. He wants to kick himself for the stupidly hopeful feeling surging through his chest at the prospect of Cas joining them on the hunt. He hasn’t seen the angel in so long….Dean screws his face up into a look of disgust. Why does it matter? He’s fine with Sam. Great, actually. 

Or so he keeps telling himself. 

Sam asks if they should get a room for the night, but Dean just shakes his head and says that they can get a room the next day, once they’re finally in Sandy. Sam is obviously exhausted, so Dean turns down the pounding classic rock and encourages him to sleep. Sam is out within minutes, snoring lightly a half hour later, causing Dean to chuckle and smile softly. Some part of his brain vaguely notes how soft he’s becoming, his feelings more and more ‘soft-hearted’ as Charlie would put it, but he can’t really find it in himself to care. He’s a hunter, dammit, who has survived Hell, Purgatory, helped stop the apocalypse and return Lucifer to the pit, and so much more. If he hasn’t earned the right to feel something every once in awhile, then he’ll be damned. He drowns his worry in hard liquor and fills things that threaten him with bullets. He can dig a bullet out of his chest using tweezers, all with a straight face and a fifth of whiskey. Dean is a man, and the fact he can feel affection for his brother or compassion for Castiel doesn’t change that fact at all.

So that’s how Dean justifies the warmth he feels secondary to being startled when Castiel suddenly appears in the back seat. Dean jumps a little, almost getting whiplash turning to look back at the trenchcoat-clothed angel. Castiel offers him his barely-there smile. “Hello, Dean.” He pauses, waiting for Dean to regain composure over himself. No one is more attuned to Dean’s body language and facial expressions and what they mean than Castiel, though Sam comes a close second. It’s just a gift Cas has; to be able to understand what even the smallest flash of eyes or grunt could mean. He’s good at understanding Sam like this as well, but by far, he is able to derive meaning from everything about Dean that would mean nothing to a stranger.

Castiel realizes he must’ve just disturbed Dean from a deep train of thought, because Dean looks a little disoriented, his eyes straying down and back to the road, the faintest hint of pink dusting his freckled cheeks. “Heya, Cas. What have you been up to?” Dean asks, his voice a bit huskier, a tone Cas recognizes as suppressing emotion. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. Everything going okay?” Castiel clears his throat, answering succinctly as always.  
“Everything is fine. I have not had many tasks to attend to, so I have come to join you on this hunt, if that is acceptable with you and Sam, of course,” Castiel realizes how tentative he is with asking permission. He doesn’t want Dean to tell him that no, they don’t need help, Cas can go. He longs to stay here, riding in the back of the Impala, listening to Dean’s loud music and remaining quietly amused by the brothers’ playful bickering.

Most of all, he wants to accompany his charge, just because his heart warms at the thought of Dean Winchester. The beauty and light radiating from Dean’s soul is so lovely Castiel feels privileged just to be able to bask in it when in Dean’s presence. Oh, how breathtaking Dean’s soul is, singing of his selflessness, righteousness, and how he does love in the purest, loyalest, deepest form, even if in his stunted emotional perception he does not know this. “Sure, back up would be great. Y’know, if you want to stick around, you don’t have to just for hunts, Cas. You’re family, you’re always welcome,” Dean says, the green fire of his eyes engaging the ethereal blue of Cas’. Castiel senses the emotion behind the words, and despite Dean playing it off nonchalantly, this is an offer that means a lot to him. 

Castiel is all too eager to accept. “Thank you, Dean. I will keep that in mind.” He wants to say that he’ll always be here, right here, that he’ll never fly off without Dean, but his zealousness would most likely make the hunter uncomfortable. Dean smiles his crooked, unintentionally disarming smile and Castiel smiles back, a feeling like melting honey seeping through his chest. He feels not just needed, but wanted by the older Winchester. Dean’s sentiment of ‘you’re family’ makes something distinctly tender and warm arise inside of the seraph.  
Dean feels like some weight he didn’t know was there has been lifted off his shoulders now that Cas has appeared in the back of his car. He breathes a little easier now, smiles a little more. His shoulders have a less tense set to them. All these things Cas notices as Dean goes on about the hunt, about what Sam and him researched on the witch and what she has been doing. Castiel both enjoys the rough, deep sound of Dean’s voice- like the ocean churning in on itself during a storm- and absorbs the information while Dean points out the highlights of what’s been going on. “So the sonovabitch apparently has been creating these weird plague like spells that end up infecting the people she injects them with, and they start to doing some pretty weird shit. Sam said it was like forcing the people to spill their guts, not in the nasty way, in between being really sick. 

“So say a girl gets infected with it, and she’s been hiding that she’s cheating on her husband. Well, she’ll get sick, then end up telling her husband and revealing all the shit she has going on behind his back, and then she’ll get even sicker and die. I guess it makes them show what they keep hidden before they die- pretty much everything. Sam says it’s gotta be her way of getting people to be ‘true to themselves’ or some stupid shit like that before they end up puking their guts up. It’s deranged, but I’m guessing she has her reasons for creating it. Either way, we’re gonna gank her tomorrow,” Dean finishes, squinting to see through the liquid gray haze of rain pelting down outside. He can see the individual drops illuminated in the two golden beams of the headlights, and focuses on them while he thinks about the finer points of the case.

“It sounds like the witch we are dealing with is a Caledoni wicken. The magick they use is based off of emotional magicks. They specialize in trying to unite emotion with the magick realm, and it often involves the human soul being exploited to do so. They’re very powerful, but tend to focus their magick on exploiting the soul for its emotional power and using it to do whatever they deem needs to be done. Based on what you’ve told me, this witch is violating people’s souls to release the emotional power within them. When something as pure as a soul is exposed to magick of dark origin, it will essentially poison the host and rot them from the inside out. The emotional outbursts and confessions are a side effect of what her magick is doing.” Castiel explains. 

Dean plows a hand through his hair, filling his cheeks up with air and exhaling a gusty breath. “So what, we gank the bitch and she can’t poison people with her Magick anymore, and everyone can stop spilling their guts, both literally and figuratively?” Dean questions, getting to the point. When Cas nods, Dean asks the biggest question. “So how do we kill it?”  
“A poppy seed extract and juniper -infused bullet through the heart.” Cas answers. Dean shrugs.  
“I’ve heard weirder. Any idea on how we can make one?” Dean asks.  
“I think we have a few buried in the trunk somewhere,” Sam chips in, yawning hugely as he sits up, blinking away the sleep in his eyes. Dean smirks.  
“Well good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Dean says, then fills Sam in on what Cas told them about the witch, or more accurately: Caledoni wicken.  
“Okay, cool. When we get to Sandy, we’ll scope out the trunk for the bullets, then hunt her down and kill her.” Sam sums up. Dean slaps the steering wheel with his palm, grinning at his little brother.  
“Now we just gotta get to Sandy.” Dean finishes.

The brothers alternate driving and sleeping, and Cas sits quietly in the back seat, feeling better than he has for weeks now that he has been reunited with the Winchesters. He feels a certain sense of belonging here. Dean also is noticeably in a better mood, and Sam just smirks to himself, reading those two like a book. Sam likes to entertain himself with wondering who is gonna crack and spill their feelings for the other first. His money is on Dean; Dean always seems to lose his shit, emotionally speaking, when it comes to either him or Cas. Before the sun comes up, Dean pulls up to Sandy Mountain Lodge, a motel that looks cheap and weird enough to suit them, and parks the car. “Cas, you wanna come with me? Or you can stay here and try to wake Sammy up,” Dean grins at his snoring brother and then looks over at Castiel. Castiel looks contemplative, but Dean sees the corner of his mouth pulled up in a lopsided smile. 

“I think I’ll come with you. Waking Sam up will not end up well. He’s in his fourth REM cycle; he would be very unhappy with me.” Castiel amends, opening the car door and joining Dean. Dean laughs freely, showcasing his straight, white teeth when he does so.  
“Well then let’s go and we can flip a coin to see who has to wake him up in a minute,” Dean proclaims. The rain has faded out to a light, cold drizzle, darkening his hair and leaving little spots on his jeans. Once the hunter and angel are inside the lobby of the motel, Dean strides up to the counter, Cas in tow, and asks for a room with two beds.  
“Did you want your own room, Cas?” Dean asks, on second thought. Angels don’t sleep, but where would Cas stay?  
“I do not need one. I won’t be sleeping,” Castiel explains what Dean already guessed. He turns back to the guy at the front desk and nods.  
“Okay, so one room, two beds.” The guy nods, typing it in on his computer, then handing a set of keys to the room to Dean.  
“Room 117. Enjoy your stay,” the attendant says, then goes back to reading the Sports Illustrated magazine he was reading earlier. Dean sighs, looking reluctantly outside.  
“Time to go wake Sam up. Wait here.” 

Dean returns minutes later with a tired and slightly cranky Sam, whose flannel is creased and wrinkled and his hair is even more of a chaotic mess. The three find their room, Dean switching on the light and setting their bags down by a nightstand. As is typical with these places, the wallpaper is a hideous pattern that doesn’t match the one on the carpet, and it smells vaguely of cigarette smoke. Still, Sam doesn’t seem to care, seeing as he’s kicking his shoes off and already sliding underneath the blankets on the bed closest to the door. The minute his head hits the stack of flat pillows, he’s asleep again, despite the light being on. Dean smiles at Sam’s sleeping form, turning a lamp on and switching the overhead lamp off so there is less light, but they can still see. “I’m gonna get my four hours, and then we’ll go hunt down the witch and see what’s up with the situation. Where are you gonna go?” Dean asks, shrugging out of his cargo jacket and draping it over a chair.

“I’ll be picking up the ingredients and making the poppy seed extract and juniper bullets while you are asleep. I checked the trunk; you do not have any.” Castiel announces. Dean scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, his desire to sleep surfacing now that he’s sitting on the edge of a bed.  
“Okay, sounds good. We should be up in four or so hours.” Dean says, reaching over to turn the lamp off. Castiel holds his gaze, his oceanic eyes seeming to smolder with something Dean can’t distinguish, but it sets off a peculiar feeling like spilling sunshine beneath the surface of his skin.  
“Goodnight, Dean. Sleep well. I will return in the morning.” Castiel finally breaks the intrigued silence, and then with the sound of rustling feathers, he is gone. Dean sighs breathily, turning out the light, and swings his legs underneath the mildly scratchy blankets, shutting his eyes. 

For the first time in several weeks, Dean is going to bed knowing he’ll wake up and Cas will be there. 

The darkness of the room masks the small, contented smile that finds a home on Dean’s lips.


	2. On the Hunt

The annoying blaring of the alarm clock on the nightstand- akin to that of a shrill fire truck siren- snaps Dean into consciousness, a dull ache centered at the back of his head. Yes, he is still very much exhausted, and after slamming down the off button on the alarm clock, he slumps back down into the bed, pulling the scratchy sheets over his shoulder. He hears the sound of running water, and knows Sam is taking a shower. That should mean he can sleep in for ten more minutes, right? 

As if on cue, the water turns off, and Dean sighs heavily. Never mind, he’ll just get up now. The universe doesn’t give him nice things, like ten extra minutes of sleep. Dean kicks his legs free of the blankets, glaring at the rays of sun poking through the slats in the blinds covering the window, and stands. He kneels by his dufflebag, unzipping it and rifling through it in search of clothes.

Sam opens the bathroom door and walks out with a towel wrapped around his waist, his wet hair plastered to his face and neck, droplets of water dripping down over his chest. “Morning,” he greets his brother, bending over his dufflebag and rooting around. He pulls out a red flannel as Dean rises up and walks towards the bathroom, calling a goodmorning over his shoulder in reply. The mirror is fogged up with steam, and Dean wipes a spot clear with his hand, peering at his face to see if he needs to shave. Dark stubble is prominent along the ridge of his jawline, and he sighs again, resigned to the fact he’s going to have to get rid of it. 

He sets the only other folded towel on the counter by the sink for him to reach when he gets out, then turns the water on, waiting for it to get hot again since his moose of a brother used up all the warm water. Dean tries to turn the fan on to get rid of some of the moisture in the air, but of course, it doesn’t work. He rolls his eyes. Shitty motels will always be a part of his life, whether he likes it or not, just sometimes he wishes that the patterns on the wallpaper and carpet wouldn’t make his head hurt. “He’s taking a shower,” Dean hears Sam say, and then he realizes Sam is talking to Cas. Dean breaks into a smile against his will- he had almost forgotten about Castiel coming home. Dean catches himself with the ‘coming home’ part. Does Cas in fact consider Sam, and more crucially, Dean, his home?

“Dammit,” Dean mutters to himself as he steps under the hot shower spray. Here he goes again, thinking about deep things that just end up making him get emotional and feel clingy. He was right earlier; there is definitely no way he has the hardened-by-circumstance heart he had thought. If anything, everything he’s been through has just made it more vulnerable and soft. Dean scrubs the cheap chemical-smelling motel soap into his spiky hair, viciously rubbing behind his ears to clear away the sweat, dirt, and oil. Dean takes fast showers, faster even than Sam, who claims to only take longer than Dean because of his precious hair. Dean finishes up lathering his body with more soap, rinses it away, and then steps out of the shower.

Dean wraps the towel around his waist, tucking the corner in, but the towel is too small for a man of his and Sam’s size. It sits low on his hips, just barely overlapping enough to cover him all the way around. Dean wipes away the moisture collected on the mirror over the sink with a forearm, then uses a cheap disposable razor and the can of shaving cream him and Sam share to take care of the scruff on the lower half of his face. He nicks himself on the underside of his jaw and grumbles, thinking it would be wise to finally invest in an electric razor. He’s finished in no time, washing away any remnants of shaving cream and patting his face down with a spare hand towel. With that out of the way, he opens up the bathroom door, letting the humid air escape into the motel room, and walks out to grab the clothes he set on his dufflebag. 

Sam is already dressed, sitting cross-legged on his neatly made bed and researching something on his laptop. Castiel is standing in between the two beds. As soon as Dean is fully visible, Castiel turns to look at him, and a thrill goes through him when he sees Castiel’s cerulean blue eyes widen as he very, very quickly traverses the length of Dean’s muscular, scarred chest almost so fast Dean doesn’t notice. “Hey, Cas. Did you get what you needed for the bullets?” Dean asks, drying his wet hair with the hand towel.  
“Hello, Dean. Yes, I got the ingredients and made them. They’re in the paper bag over there,” Castiel says, gesturing with a tilt of his head to to the brown paper sack by Sam’s dufflebag. Dean might just be imagining it, but does Castiel’s voice sound a little huskier than normal? Castiel feels stupidly flustered; the last time he saw Dean without a shirt was when he remade his mangled body after pulling him from Hell. Somehow seeing him now feels different than that did, when he was reconstructing the very bone structure of Dean’s chest and creating new, smooth skin, free of imperfections. 

Dean dismisses it as him being an arrogant sonovabitch (as usual- jeez, Cas isn’t some girl who is drooling over him, get over yourself, Dean) and pulls on a black crewneck shirt over his head before looking back at the angel. “Awesome! You hungry, Cas? Sam and I were just about to go get breakfast.” Dean invites him along. The answering smile on Castiel’s face is reply enough.  
“I do not eat, but I would like to accompany you two, if you don’t mind,” Cas responds, keeping his eyes averted from Dean’s broad shoulders. Dean finishes buttoning up his flannel, then grabs his jeans and heads back into the bathroom, slapping Cas genially on the shoulder.  
“Alright, buddy, gimme a sec, I’ll be right out.” Dean says, then shuts the door and drops his towel so he can put on his boxers and jeans. He exits the bathroom and grabs his combat boots, lacing them on his feet while Sam shuts his laptop and joins Dean in putting on his shoes.  
“So just coffee or an actual breakfast?” Sam asks, unlocking the motel door and heading out into the hall. Dean and Cas follow.  
“Actual breakfast. I’m starving.” Dean decides as they load up the Impala. 

Led Zeppelin plays at slightly less than ear-splitting decibels, Dean singing dramatically along, obviously in good spirits. Sam has this sly smile, looking between Dean and Cas sitting in the back. Castiel is smiling fondly watching Dean hit some painful-to-hear highnotes, and Dean is even more obvious. He’s in such a good mood Sam is confident Dean won’t even complain later when he inevitably gets thrown into some sort of wall most likely by the witch. Even Sam can’t help but sing back up; Dean is rarely this happy, and something about it is contagious. 

They pull up to a Biggerson’s, Dean still humming the melody of the last song under his breath, and enter the restaurant, the brothers inhaling the scent of food in the air and feeling even more hungry. A waitress escorts them to another booth table. Sam slides in to sit closest to the window, already grabbing a menu and looking through it, and Dean sits next to his brother. Cas sits in front of Dean, much to Sam’s satisfaction. He grins deviously behind the menu as he catches them staring into each other’s eyes, like this is some deranged ‘tender eye love-making’ as he puts it- damn. Still, he can’t help but be glad that the two obviously put each other in good moods. Dean is usually nowhere near this happy until he has had a drink or two. Either way, Sam is just glad that there is someone who makes his brother truly happy, besides him of course. 

The waitress, a short girl with a bleached white smile and platinum hair pulled into two pigtail braids takes their orders. “What can I get you boys this morning?” She asks, batting her eyelashes as she makes eye contact with Sam. To Dean, Sam is rather ignorant when it comes to noticing when a girl is blatantly flirting with him- this is just further proof of it. He hardly looks up from his menu, so engrossed in figuring out what he wants to eat.  
“I’ll have coffee, mixed fruit and yogurt, and scrambled eggs,” Sam says, then hands her his menu. She scribbles it down, then turns to Cas.  
“Just coffee for me, please,” Castiel asks.  
“I’ll have a tall stack of pancakes, sausage and bacon, and coffee.” Dean finishes.  
“I’ll be right back with that,” the waitress says, and casts Sam one last flirty smile before walking away, hips swinging. Dean snorts, taking a drink of the water already on the table.  
“Dude, she was totally into you. Maybe throw her a bone, yeah?” Dean hints, but Sam just squints at him and rolls his eyes. He can handle himself without Dean’s advice, thank you very much.

They drink their coffee and eat their food in comfortable silence, all of them focused on different things but still enjoying each other’s company. Dean leaves the money on the table, and they pile back into the Impala and are on the road in no time. Sam, riding shotgun, turns the map in his hands, occasionally telling Dean where to turn. Whenever Dean looks in the rearview mirror to make sure no one is riding his bumper trying to get him to drive faster (he’s driving unusually slow trying to follow Sammy’s directions) his eyes meet crystalline blue ones staring back. Dean would never admit this to himself, let alone anyone else, but he is in higher spirits with the angel in a trenchcoat in the back.

Dean pulls the Impala up flush with the curb of a sidewalk, then kills the engine. They’re in a particularly sketchy looking area downtown. All the buildings look run down- graffiti marrs the brick walls of pawn shops, and several abandoned houses Dean can see just from where he is have smashed in windows. He gets out of the car, locking it once his brother and angel are out (shit, he just thought of Cas as his angel. Oh man.) and turns in a slow circle to survey things further. Yeah, this area looks frequented by thugs, drug dealers, and maybe even the occasional gangster. The sky overhead is dark and dreary with the buildup of gray clouds, rain-swollen and threatening to release their load down upon them at any moment. Somehow this only adds to how shady this downtown area is. 

Dean pops the trunk and bends over it, grabbing a shotgun for him and Sam, figuring Cas will be fine without since he is an angel. Sam joins him, grabbing one of the guns and loading it up with the poppy seed extract bullets. The silence is broken by the snap of the shotguns being cocked. Dean slips a dagger into the side of his boot, and fills the inside pocket of his cargo jacket with extra bullets. Sam follows suit, stowing a few knives away in his clothes and stuffing spare bullets into his jeans pockets. “Need a knife, Cas?” Dean asks, surveying the vast array of weapons in the trunk in case he is missing anything.  
“I have my angel blade, I don’t need anything else,” Castiel assures them.  
“Will it work on killing the witch?” Sam asks, slamming the trunk shut. Castiel nods.  
“I believe so. I have not run into a creature that could not be killed by it before.”

The three take the alleyways behind bars and drugstores, rain-beaten cigarette butts and broken glass crunching beneath their boots. They don’t see anyone around, and only a few cars drive by. The wind is blowing, lashing Sam’s hair back and mussing Cas’ up into even more of a disarray. The brothers have their shotguns pointing at the ground, for now, but as soon as they find the house they believe the witch has her den in, they will have their guns at the ready. Castiel has manifested his angel blade in his hand, and carries it concealed by the sleeve of his trenchcoat at his side. An ominous crack of thunder splits through the tension in the atmosphere, followed by big, fat, cold raindrops hurtling down from the sky. “Sonovabitch,” Dean grumbles as the rain is whipped sideways by another gust of wind. The rain picks up, icy cold and drenching, and Dean just grits his teeth and keeps leading the way. 

“There’s the house, up there,” Sam hisses, trying to be heard over the howl of the wind but not yell and give them away. Dean follows the direction he is pointing in with his gun and sees a lone house off to the side of an abandoned chiropractor’s office. If he didn’t know better, Dean would say the house was abandoned too, it is in such poor condition. It’s a single story, and quite small at that, with no garage. The roof appears to be caving in, the shackles hardly visible beneath the thick carpet of moss. The faded blue paint is peeling off in strips. Moss grows over the parts of the porch not shielded by the awning, and several holes are in the wood of the stairs leading up to it. The lawn is overgrown with weeds, the grass high, and broken beer bottles clutter the short expanse of yard too.  
“What a dump,” Dean spits through the rain on his face. Castiel blinks little droplets of rain off his eyelashes and nods.  
“The witch is in there, I can sense the magicks from all the over here. How do you plan on entering?” Cas asks, the wind almost tearing away his words. 

“I’ll go in through the back with Sam, and Cas, you come in through the front. That way you have the advantage of surprise on your side, especially if the witch is distracted by us enough that she won’t be aware of you until it’s too late.” Dean says. They cross the street over to the house, sticking to the shadows cast by other buildings as to remain unseen, though they aren’t sure if the stealth will make much of a difference.  
“Great, okay. Let’s go,” Sam says, lifting his gun and hugging the side of the house as he comes around to the back. Dean nods at Cas and then the two split ways, Dean following Sam and Castiel waiting unseen by the side of the staircase leading up to the porch. The backyard is in just as much of an overgrown state as the front, The grass almost reaching Dean’s knees. Lightning flashes briefly, lighting up the sky for a split second, before another peal of thunder echoes through the sound of rain drumming on roofs and splattering on pavement. 

The back door is locked, as predicted, and Sam pulls out the straightened, skinny metal rod he and Dean have used to pick many locks before. Dean’s gun is raised as he watches his brother’s back, Sam jiggling the rod around in the keyhole. A quiet, muted ‘ch-link’ comes from the tumblers, signifying Sam has successfully unlocked the door. He wraps one huge hand around the knob, then nods at Dean for confirmation, and carefully, quietly opens the door. It makes no difference- for the hinges squeak in protest, a grating noise that makes both boys flinch and level their guns in anticipation of being discovered. If the sound of the lock being picked wasn’t a dead give away in the first place, then the loud squeak of the unoiled hinges must have done the job. 

They jog into the kitchen, back to back, quickly assessing the area. No one comes in to try and kill them; and no one is in the kitchen. They still keep their guns up, vigilant as ever. The kitchen is a complete mess- a huge pile of dirty dishes sits in both sides of the sink; the table and counters are covered in half eaten and rotting food and more dishes. Though it is dark in the unlit house, the brothers’ eyes adjust quickly enough to further study what exactly is all over the counters. These aren’t normal things at all- no. Mutilated frogs lie in a tupperware container next to a jar holding a dark, crimson liquid instantly recognizable as blood. Some small, dried purple flowers are wrapped in a napkin next to it, and a bowl beside it shows something white and chalky ground with more dried herbs. Dean supposes the white chunks are bone, but he doesn’t look too close. 

“This is sick, man,” Sam whispers, his voice contorted with disgust as he picks up a mason jar containing what look like human teeth, the roots still attached and a bloody mess. Dean wrinkles his nose as his eyes fall on a beer bottle filled with a suspicious milky fluid.  
“I think we definitely got the right house,” Dean comments back, biting his tongue to keep from gagging when the scent of rancid tongues sitting in a small dish by the stove reaches his nose. The brothers move into the living room, which has a ratty carpet stained in spots, a couch with several tears in the upholstery, and an ancient-looking TV. Shelves and shelves line the walls with books written in no human language, all of them worn and no doubt full of spells or some lore-type shit. Strange symbols are drawn on the covers, and Sam recognizes a few relating to alchemy. The coffee table in front of the couch has a few open books on it and a plate with what looks like strands of human hair, more blood, and ground herbs in it. A half-done potion, perhaps? Or maybe some sort of hoodoo magick spell yet to be completed?

A hallway leads into darkness, branching off from the living room, and when Dean gets closer to it, he hears the faint sound of an incantation being breathed in a language that makes him feel uneasy. “Sam!” Dean hisses, gesturing for his brother to join him. Sam jogs over, straining to hear. “She’s in one of the rooms,” Dean breathes, and starts to walk down the hall, stepping as lightly as possible. Sam is on his heels, but he holds a hand up for Dean to stop. “What?” Dean whispers, confused.  
“Listen.” Sam says, raising his voice just enough to he can be heard over the thrumming of rain pouring down outside, coupled with the eerie moan of wind. Dean complies, and he realizes that not only one incantation is being chanted, but two. That means there is more than one witch here, at least. Shit. He didn’t think to consider the possibility that there could be more than one witch responsible for all the freaky shit that’s been going on.  
“Sonovabitch. Okay, I’ll take the first door, you take the second. Cas is probably already lurking in here somewhere, ready to jump in when we need him. Ready?” Dean asks, adjusting the weight of the gun in his hands. Sam nods, and then at the same time, the brothers each kick open the door they were assigned to and barge in. 

The door slams into the wall loudly, Dean swiveling around in search of the witch, but all he sees is stacks of books on the floors, an unmade bed, and clothes in dark colors strewn across the floor. The light is on, so he can see on a desk in the corner sits a radio, a button pushed down on it, and a jolt of confusion and suspicion shoots through him when he realizes it is playing the same spell over and over. Dean had thought it was the witch, but she is obviously not in here, now that he has scoured the room for her. Sam runs into the room, startling Dean into aiming his gun instinctively at Sam’s heart, but he drops it instantly when he recognizes his brother. “Dean, it’s just a radio she left on.” Sam pants as he realizes the situation is the same in this room as well.  
“Well why the hell-” Dean starts, but is cut off when a shockingly loud boom of thunder overpowers his voice and the lights go out. Rain taps relentlessly against the glass of the window, and the wind makes the old house almost groan as it shifts against the forces of nature.  
“We’ve been set up,” Sam comes to the conclusion, pupils blowing wide at the revelation.  
“Sonovabitch!” Dean growls, jogging out of the room and to the end of the hallway. He kicks open the last door and jumps into the room- a bathroom- expecting Sam to be right behind him, but realizes simultaneously the witch isn’t in here either, but the sound of something being crashed into in the other room tells him where she might be. 

“Sammy!” Dean yells, sprinting back into the room, only to feel something crack into his skull with violence, sending Dean collapsing onto his knees. “Fuck!” Dean spits, clutching his head as lights go off behind his eyes and blackness encroaches on his vision, threatening to suck him into unconsciousness. Dean clenches his jaw and forces himself onto his feet, his eyes focusing in on a short, lean but curvy figure crouched over his fallen brother. Her hands are on either side of his face, positioned to break his neck if Dean tries to shoot her.  
“Hello, hunters. Nice to have some company for once. Sorry I didn’t clean up before you got here,” the witch snarls, baring her teeth in a malevolent smile.  
“Let go of my brother or I’m going to fill you the fuck up with bullets,” Dean demands, his sights lined up on the witch’s heart. “Poppy seed and juniper, that’s right, bitch. You have five seconds.” The witch throws back her head and cackles. Sam is unresponsive under her hands, clearly unconscious. She’s pretty in a distinctly evil sort of way; with long, raven-colored black hair that reaches her waist, at least ten piercings in each ear, a ring in her nose, smokey black eye makeup and dark red lipstick. 

“That’s cute. You’re in my house, remember? I’m the witch, not you. And if you’ve paid any attention to my work before, you’ll know that I have a tendency of getting my way.” She winks at Dean and his finger wraps around the trigger, barely restraining from pulling it for fear of her harming his brother. “You’ve kind of pissed me off, you know, just barging in here. I think I might just have to teach you a lesson….” She pulls a homemade syringe out of the pocket on her long skirt. Dean recognizes that it must be the poison she’s injected into those people, and if she dares try and get that shit into his brother….Dean is going to blow her head off as well as reduce her heart to mush via witch-killing bullets. 

Suddenly, Castiel appears behind her, angel blade in hand, and thrusts it forward. The witch ducks a split second before it pierces her chest, the blade passing through air, and realizing she’s caught in a lose-lose situation, makes a last ditch attempt at a get away and jams the needle into Castiel’s calf. She pushes down the plunger just in time for Dean to squeeze the trigger, the bullet piercing perfectly through her heart. Dean holds it down, filling her chest up with the bullets, and she drops his brother and the syringe, sprawled out on her back, killed instantly by the the ammo Cas made. Castiel’s knees buckle and he drops to the floor, angel blade clattering out of his hand, eyes wide in shock. He feels his heart accelerating as the poison surges through his veins, and the worst of things possible happens. The poison wraps around the bond connecting his vessel with his Grace, making it so he is unable to use it to destroy the poison, or reach his Grace at all, for that matter. 

“Fuck! Cas!” Dean shouts, throwing himself practically on top of Castiel as he rips the pant leg up to examine the angel’s leg. He sees the tiny hole left in Castiel’s flesh from the needle, oozing a thin trail of blood. “Dammit, Cas! Wake up!” Dean pleads, his voice loud and rough with hysteria. The fact that his body hasn’t already healed itself makes the lead weight of panic and fear drop into Dean’s gut. The only reason Cas wouldn’t have healed himself by now could only mean he is unable to do so. The poison must also be affecting his Grace. “Oh fuck, shit, Cas!” Dean yells, grasping the angel’s shoulders and pulling him closer so Castiel’s head rests in Dean’s lap. Dean lifts one hand and holds it over Castiel’s parted lips, breathing a sigh of relief when he feels breath entering and exiting through Cas’ mouth. Castiel’s eyes have shut, his body seized up, and a tremor rocks through him. Castiel starts to convulse in Dean’s arms.

Panic rips through Dean’s chest and he squeezes Castiel to him desperately, not sure what to do, but dying to do something. “Cas! Castiel! Can you hear me?! Stay with me!” Dean begs, praying to see those blue eyes open up. He hears Sam moving behind him- he is sitting up and taking in the scene before him, trying to make sense of it.  
“Did she poison him?” Sam asks, examining the needle mark in Castiel’s calf. The angel all at once stops convulsing, body going slack and limp in Dean’s arm, sagging into him.  
“Castiel?” Dean cries, searching the angel’s face for any sign of consciousness. There is none- Castiel is out. Dean scoops him up against his chest, encircling his shoulders with one arm and slipping the other under Castiel’s knees. He hoists him up with some effort, Castiel’s head lolling limply against Dean’s heart. “Grab his blade! We’re getting the fuck out of here,” Dean orders, glancing quickly at the witch on the ground to make sure she truly is dead. Sam nods, stumbling to his feet and gathering the guns and angel blade they had dropped and following Dean as he sprints down the hall and out into the onslaught of driving rain. 

“Start the car,” Dean barks, opening the door and sliding into the back seat, stretching Castiel out over his lap and the rest of the seat. He has no idea what to do about the poison- he can’t just suck it out; it’s already spread through Cas’ body. He’d only poison himself in futiley trying to detox the angel. Sam starts the car, immediately backing out and getting on the road. Dean cradles Castiel’s head in his lap, running his fingers through Cas’ rain-darkened hair, unable to quell the instincts that make him need to comfort and protect his angel. He’s too overcome with anxiety and worry thinking about how he will give anything not lose Castiel. He just got him back. He doesn’t know how an angel will respond to the poison, but he sure as hell is scared to find out.

“Are you okay, Sammy?” Dean asks, also concerned for his brother.  
“I’m fine, Dean. The witch just hit me pretty good, knocked me out,” Sam explains. Dean’s body is rigid with tension. All he can do is stroke Cas’ hair and whisper quietly in his ear, begging Cas to open his eyes, to be okay, somehow. Just please be okay. Dean obsessively keeps checking where Castiel got injected, but there is no difference in the tiny mark. Castiel seems as lifeless as ever; if not for his pulse beating too fast and shallow in his neck and wrists and the breaths rapidly passing through his lips, Dean would be scared his angel is dead.  
“I’m here, Cas, I’m not gonna leave you,” Dean murmurs, quiet enough that Sammy won’t hear. Castiel shifts slightly in Dean's grip towards Dean’s voice, groaning, before returning to his coma-like state. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, mind reeling trying to think of some way to help Castiel. 

Castiel will be fine. He has to be.

Dean won’t allow any other option.


	3. Deals, Potions, and Revenge

Dean stares at Castiel lying in his bed, his head and face the only part of him visible. Dean had made sure to heap a pile of blankets on top of the angel, not sure if it would make a difference to his body temperature, but willing to try anything to get him to wake up. He’s been in the same position for hours, not once having turned over or made another noise. Something about the way he is sprawled out under the covers is distinctly unsettling to Dean. He’s never once seen him like this, because angels don’t sleep, yet his mind wants to believe that’s what Cas is doing. It feels wrong to see Castiel so unaware, so vulnerable and feeling a million miles away from what’s going on. 

Dean has also never seen Castiel’s appearance look any different from how it usually looks, apart from sometimes being covered in blood and having torn clothing. Even then, all Cas had to do was mojo himself clean, and heal his vessel with just a thought. Now Castiel looks, painfully, eerily, scarily human. His skin is a sallow paper white color, and his eyes are ringed in a light purple. His lips are bloodlessly pale and slightly parted, his jaw slack in unconsciousness. His hair is threaded in a hundred different directions, no longer a shade darker from rain, appearing even more unkempt than usual. The light from the lamp somehow seems harsher illuminating how gaunt his face is looking at the moment, but Dean can’t turn it off due to the thick, dark canopy of rain clouds blotting out the sun.

Dean is sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, right across from Castiel, his legs draped over the edge of the bed, feet planted on the ground. His chin rests on his steepled hands, and his eyes are trained intently on Cas. His body aches to lay beside the angel; his hands want to brush the strands of hair off his forehead, want to rub circles between his shoulder blades in comfort, and his lips want to speak words of reassurance into the seraph’s ear. Dean has left the filter off his thoughts, with all of this worry, concern, and anxiety gripping his heart in cold hands. He’s stopped trying to discern his thoughts, trying to make sure they are only distinctly platonic and masculine when concerning the unconscious angel. Dean feels too weak to try and keep back the sentimentality he feels always, but more intensely right now.

Castiel’s slumped, still slightly damp form, swathed in blankets on Dean’s bed has triggered Dean’s most severe and unrelenting protective and possessive instincts. Dean’s thoughts are a jackhammering torrent of imagining the poison coursing through Cas’ veins, of his Grace being unreachable, the link severed temporarily from the greedy poison. The hunter can’t help but torture himself with wondering about what the poison is doing, what the effects will be, and how the hell he is going to combat them. He can shoot a monster trying to attack him, or exorcise a demon threatening him or his family, but what can he do about poison draining away his angel’s strength?

“How long has it been since the poison entered his body?” Sam asks, sitting at the desk in the corner, both laptops open in front of him, a phone pressed to his ear.  
“I think about three hours,” Dean replies, thinking back to what happened after they finally got back to the motel.

***

 

The rain had spat viciously into Dean’s face when he had gotten out of the car, a very comatose angel cradled in his arms. Dean jogged up the steps to their motel room, Sam hurriedly unlocking the door, the wind whipping his long hair into his face. Dean had to squint against the pounding rain, which felt more like being in a freezing shower with the water turned to full than being outside. Finally Sam got the door open, and the two brothers barreled inside, angel in tow, and Sam slammed the door shut behind them, locking the deadbolt. Dean crossed the short distance from the door to his bed, then laid Castiel down on top of the mess of covers. Dean’s stomach churned; seeing Cas this lifeless was painting horrible pictures in his head, ones where the seraph was dead. Dean couldn’t think about that. He just couldn’t. 

“Get his trenchcoat off, he’s soaked to the bone,” Sam ordered, seeming to be the only one with a mind not dwelling on how Castiel looks much looked like a corpse. Dean complied, gently easing the coat off his shoulders and pulling his arms back out of the sleeves. He tossed the rain sodden thing to the ground, then got to work wrestling Cas’ shoes off of his feet. Sam has instantly got to calling Garth and looking up information from a bunch of other sources to figure out what to do with a poisoned angel. Dean had just arranged Cas’ limbs in the most comfortable way he could think of, then pulled the blankets up over him and tucked them under his chin. He wanted Cas to get warmed up, thinking in a stupidly hopeful way that maybe if Cas just wasn’t so damn cold and drenched to the bone from the rain, maybe he’d open his eyes. 

***

Castiel still hasn’t. He hasn’t changed position, hasn’t rolled over or turned his head. Dean’s entire body is aching with the fierce desire to do something, to do anything to make a difference with what is going on. He hates himself for sitting here and just watching things unfold, for nursing the angst eating at his core instead of doing something helpful. He should be helping Sam with whatever research he is doing, making calls or Googling lore on witch’s poison. But he finds himself unable to do anything but stare at the seraph. Sam thinks Dean is in a kind of shock, though he won’t mention this to Dean, and frankly, Sam isn’t sure how to get him out of it, seeing as this kind of thing hasn’t happened for years. He’s pretty sure the last time Dean would’ve gone into this sort of trance was when he was dead after being stabbed through the spine by Jake. 

Sam figures he needs to give Dean a task, that it might break Dean out of his stupor, so he does. “Dean, can you drive back to the witch’s house and see if maybe she has a book or something that could explain what the poison does or how it’s made? Even if you can find what is in it, it would help me figure out what could cure it,” Sam suggests, turning to face Dean. Dean looks up, then nods, standing.  
“I’ll be back in an hour. If Cas does so much as twitch, you call me,” Dean orders, grabbing his jacket. What Dean doesn’t say is that he would rather stab himself than leave Cas, but if there is anything he can do to help, he’ll do it.  
“I will. If you’re gonna be later, call and let me know.” Sam says, then gets right back to researching. Dean nods at his brother, pocketing his keys, and casts one last look at Castiel. Sam sees a flash of something distinctly softhearted beneath the determined surface of Dean’s eyes. It breaks Sam’s heart. As soon as the door shuts behind Dean, Sam is researching even more fervently. He can’t lose both Cas and his brother. He won’t.

 

Dean’s gaze is steely, penetrating through the haze of rain and gray outside the windshield. His foot is lead on the gas pedal, and for the first time in a long time, there is no music playing. Dean’s jaw is clenched and his knuckles bone white from how tight he grips the steering wheel. There aren’t many cars out, but he weaves effortlessly around them, going well above the speed limit until he pulls up directly in front of the witch’s house. He kills the engine and gets out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary, and jogs up the steps on the porch. The door is unlocked from when they were here last, and Dean enters the house and shuts the door behind him. Where should he begin looking? He stalks over to the witch’s bedroom, figuring that is as good a place to begin as any.

Dean is brought up short upon seeing a figure bent over the corpse of the bitch who had poisoned Castiel. The figure straightens up upon hearing Dean entering, and Dean raises his gun, still full of the poppy seed extract and juniper bullets. The sights are lined up over her heart, but Dean doesn’t shoot. He could use the witch. If anyone would know anything about the poison and how to cure it, it would be her. “Make one move and you’re gonna end up with a clusterfuck of poppy seed and juniper in your heart,” Dean growls, inching forward. The woman- a witch, Dean supposes by the strange symbols tattooed to her arms- doesn’t even react. She just keeps crying, this time looking at Dean, tears streaking lines down her face. 

“You killed my sister,” she sobs, her words both laden with sorrow and dripping venom. Dean shrugs, unrepentant.  
“She fucking deserved to die. The bitch had it coming,” Dean spits, his glare deepening. He feels not a shred of sympathy.  
“You deserve to die for killing her,” the witch snarls, lunging at Dean with a glowing, sharp object in her hand. no doubt some sort of cursed blade. Damn witches and their hoodoo spells and curses. Dean swiftly steps out of the way, slamming the butt of his gun into the side of her head, making her collapse at the blunt strength behind the hit. Dean feels nothing but ice in his veins. He kicks the hand closed around the handle of the knife, forcing the blade to fly out of her hand and across the room. She groans, rolling onto her back and once again launching herself at Dean with a strangled battle cry. Dean is about to pummel her with the gun again, still holding off from shooting her, but decides that a punch or two will be far more effective. 

He curls his hand into a fist and bashes it into her nose, a satisfying crunch of cartilage sounding in response. A gush of blood starts to spill from her nose, followed by an indignant cry. Dean punches her once again, this time in the jaw, and the witch collapses backwards, falling onto her back. Dean leans over her, wrapping a hand around her throat, and lifts her up, pinning her against the wall. Her eyes are wide with shock, and Dean tightens the hand around her throat, her air supply choking off. He doesn’t break eye contact even as he presses his fingers into the vulnerable spaces between her trachea and tendons. Her eyes bulge, her hands clawing feebly at his hand. “Please,” she gasps, the sound barely distinguishable from being forced through a too-tightly closed off airway. “Don’t kill me. You need me.” She cries, her face darkening a purple shade. She doesn’t have long before oxygen deprivation makes her pass out. 

Dean raises a challenging eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Give me one good reason how,” he dares, loosening his grip just enough so she can form words. Her chest is heaving as she tries to suck in a shallow breath.  
“You want to cure him, don’t you? I have the book you need. It’ll tell you how to cure the poison she used. I can give it you,” she coughs, eyes boring into Dean’s.  
“Then I’m just going to have to keep you prisoner to translate it,” Dean notes. “And I have a dungeon with your name on it. Trust me, I’m a hunter, and I have learned how to torture, believe me. Forty years of Hell will do that to you.” Dean remarks, his voice laced with acid.  
“I can give you a potion that will allow you to translate it on your own! That way you’ll know I’m not lying! Just please, please let me go. I promise I’ll never come back here, ever. I’ll give you the book and the translating potion, I swear!” The witch pleads, on the verge of blacking out. Dean drops her to the ground, and she lands on her hands and knees, gasping in lungfuls of breath in a hurry. Dean presses his gun against her neck.  
“Show me the book. Make me the potion. If you try any shit, try and think of any way to weasel your way out of this, I will know. I have an angel partner who eats deceitful shit like you for breakfast. He’ll let me know if anything you gave me or told me is off, and believe me, I will hunt you down and I will make you wish you were dead.” Everything about Dean’s voice screams of pure, dreadful promise, despite the fact Cas isn’t going to be able to do that. The witch doesn’t know that. She believes Dean.

The witch stands up slowly, Dean right behind her, keeping the barrel of the gun pressed to the back of her neck. She leads him to the room Sam must’ve went into earlier, another bedroom. Presumably hers. She reaches up and pulls a book off a shelf, written in that same language everything else Dean has seen so far has been written in. She hands it to Dean, who yanks it out of her grasp. “It’s a book on poison, curses, and spell cures. It will tell you all you need to know to save your friend,” the witch says.  
“Make the potion now, bitch, and I let you go. I get a single hint that any of this is off, even a little, and I’m dragging you back to my dungeon and torturing you until you’re nothing but a heap of mangled intestines,” Dean barks, shoving her forward. The witch heads towards the kitchen, and Dean follows, one hand aiming the gun at her head, the other clutching the book. She gets to work boiling a faintly green substance in a pan on the stove, tossing in a handful of crushed flower petals.

“You are really damn low and pitiful, you know. All you’re doing is to save your own skin. It’s disgusting, really. Your kind has always been the scum of the earth,” Dean says, appalled as he watches the witch drop in a handful of another dried herb.  
“You’re not much better. Look what you’re doing, how you’re exploiting yourself, just for one person. You let people tie you down and hold you back, and for what?” she asks, and Dean slaps her across the face.  
“Shut the fuck up. You know nothing but how to sacrifice others for yourself,” Dean shouts, fury ringing in his voice. The witch remains silent, stirring the potion and dropping in a few drops of a red liquid. Both the hunter and witch are seething silently, waiting for this to finally be done. The witch chants something foreign over the potion, then removes it from the heat and pours it into an empty water bottle, putting a cap on it and handing it to Dean.  
“You have what you want now. Fair trade. I gave you the book of cures and the potion to take so you can translate it. Now you let me go, and we stay out of each other’s way, forever,” the witch says, her voice sounding flighty. She’s scared again, Dean figures.  
“Not quite yet. I want you to prove to me that this is the book with the cures and that this potion will let me read it,” Dean demands. The witch shrugs.  
“Fine. Take a drink and read.” Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously. What if she’s lying, and this potion will just kill him? Dean uncaps it. He has no other choice. This is the only option at saving Cas, and he knows it. 

Dean takes a small sip, noting the flavor is vaguely disgusting, like flowers, blood, and rotting fruit. He feels no different. He holds the book up, eyes focusing on the cover, and realizes the symbols on the front are now intelligible. They say ‘Generic Cures to Embrionic Poisons’. The witch didn’t bullshit him; he can actually read this language, and the book does infact give the cures. “You took a small drink, so it will last for about a half hour before it goes away. Just take another drink and it will kick back in. The more you drink, the longer it will last,” the witch says, looking like she can’t wait to get the hell out of here.  
“Fine, you’re free to go,” Dean says, and releases her. She turns around to head to her room and collect her things, but Dean raises his gun, lining the sights up perfectly on the back of her head. He pulls the trigger, a deafening crack going off, and the bullet rips through her skull. He fires again, and again, and the witch falls to the ground, killed instantly. He stands over her corpse, his face a mask of stone. “I don’t let evil bitches live. Not when they’ve hurt my family,” Dean says, then grabs the water bottle with the potion and the book, and gets back into the Impala and drives off, speeding to get back to his brother and angel.


	4. An Escalation in Circumstance

Sam looks up when he hears the door to their motel room open, a rain-drenched Dean stepping inside and proceeding to slam the door behind him. “I thought you were gonna call,” Sam remarks, standing up and blinking his eyes rapidly. He’s been staring at a computer screen too long, and his eyes feel like they’re burning because of it.  
“I would’ve, if I hadn’t been so busy kicking witch ass,” Dean replies while locking the door, his voice sounding both weary, strained, and slightly cocky. Sam’s eyebrows furrow in surprise, but before he can ask Dean what he means, Dean is already telling him about encountering the poison-making witch’s sister, making a deal to let her live in exchange for a book of cures and a translation potion, but then killing her afterwards anyway. Sam is shocked at his brother’s stupidity at having drank the potion on just blind faith that it will not kill him.

“Hey, calm down, man. I had to do it. You know why I did. Now I’m gonna chug that shit and figure out the damn cure so we can get Cas back up and running in no time. By the way, how is he doing?” Dean doesn’t even wait for Sam to answer his question. He jaunts over to Cas’- or, actually his own- bedside, eyes hurriedly assessing Cas’ condition. The seraph has not changed position, but Dean swears his skin is paler than before, the shadows underneath his eyes more sickly. Sam sighs heavily, raking a hand through his hair.  
“He hasn’t changed since you left, Dean. I think that I should be the one to take the translation potion, so I can figure it out and tell you what to get. You’d probably feel better actually doing something physical, I’m guessing. So yeah, I’ll do the research, like always, and you can run around and get what we need for it.” Sam suggests, though right now his eyes feel like they might bleed if he has to read anymore. He’s doing it for his family; that much gives him the willpower to do so.

Dean looks noticeably relieved, nodding and handing over the book of cures, along with the water bottle full of translation potion. Sam grimaces at it, but sets it down on the desk anyways in what appears to be an act of subdued acceptance. Sam knows his brother, how Dean needs physical work to do, something he can exert his energy into to save the angel Sam knows Dean is irrevocably in love with. So if it means Sam has to drink spinal fluid of lamb or some disgusting shit like that and slave over a witch’s book of cures, then he’ll do it. “I’ll get right on it,” Sam mutters with a resigned sigh, dropping back into the chair and uncapping the potion. The things a hunter must do in his lifetime are downright ridiculous. 

“You hungry? I can pick up some food,” Dean suggests, already itching to do something than just sit here idly, waiting for the first task. He knows that if he sits down across from Castiel, like he pines so desperately to do, then he won’t be able to stop. Won’t be able to get up and leave his side, won’t be able to shut off the emotional side of himself from the side that gets stuff done with a straight face and absolutely no hesitation. Sam’s face contorts into a look of disgust as he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, clearing away the remnants of the potion on his lips.  
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Sam agrees, seeing the angst and longing begin to spark in Dean’s eyes and knowing Dean has to distance himself from the source of it, or he will inevitably give in. It’s only a matter of time; if Dean thinks differently, then he is only fooling himself. 

Dean’s been gone for about twenty minutes when Sam hears a low groan coming from Cas, and then the sound of the old mattress creaking as Cas shifts his weight and rolls over. Sam twists his head to look over his shoulder and see Cas blinking his eyes open, looking confused and more than a little out of it. His forehead is creased with discomfort, and he squints, as if to block out the light from the lamp on Sam’s desk illuminating the room. “Hey Cas. How you feeling?” Sam asks, getting up and walking over to his bedside. Sam almost rolls his eyes when the first thing Cas says is,  
“Where’s Dean?” Yeah, those two are madly in love and Sam would bet all his money on it.  
“He’s out getting food. I’ll call him and tell him you’re awake,” Sam assures Cas, who just nods and sighs heavily as he leans back into the pillows. Before Sam can even pull his phone out of his pocket and start to dial, Cas has passed right back out without another word. Dean picks up on the first ring.  
“Sam? Cas okay?” Dean answers, in lieu of a greeting.  
“He just woke up, asked where you were, then passed out again. he was awake for like two minutes,” Sam reports, his eyes on Castiel’s lifeless looking face. His breathing is still too rapid and shallow; the poison is still working away. 

“I’m on my way back. Have you figured any of the cure out yet?” Dean asks, and Sam can hear the engine’s tone on the other end of the line change as Dean coaxes his baby faster.  
“Not yet. I’m still deciphering the index to try and find what poison she used,” Sam answers, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, as if to ward off a headache.  
“Alright, great. See you in 5,” Dean replies, and then hangs up. Sam checks on Cas one more time, then sits back down and continues his decoding. Moments later, Dean comes in with his hands full of bags. Sam gets up to give him a hand, looking inside to see what Dean could’ve bought. One bag is full of little white Chinese take-out containers- their dinner- and the other two bags are from a grocery store. Dean has dropped them on the bed in favor of standing over Cas and checking to see how his unconscious angel is doing. Sam digs through the bags, finding Ibuprofen, bottled water, a thermometer, tomatoes, a bag of uncooked brown rice, vegetable broth, and more random ingredients. 

“What is all this stuff?” Sam asks, rustling the bags to let Dean know what he’s talking about.  
“Just some stuff for Cas since he’s sick,” Dean says, sitting down on the edge of Cas’ bed and watching over him. Little does he know how much he looks like Castiel does when he watches over Dean in his sleep. Sam doesn’t question it; his brother is known to work in weird ways when driven by his emotions.  
“We should take his temperature then, since you got a thermometer,” Sam suggests, taking the device out of its packaging and handing it over to Dean. Dean bends over Castiel, turning the thermometer on with a quiet beeping noise, then pokes it gently between the angel’s slightly parted lips. The look of pure concentration and concern on the older hunter’s face makes Sam smile. A moment later, the thermometer beeps again, and Dean slips it out, reading the number displayed on the screen, waking Cas in the process.  
“Cas?” Dean says, staring into hazy blue eyes that blink blearily up at him.  
“Dean,” Cas rasps, his eyes softening around the edges, and Sam swears he’d be smiling right now if not for Dean’s worried expression. 

“You’re feverish, Cas. A hundred point six,” Dean declares the temperature, showing Sam the thermometer. Sam nods; Dean is correct in assuming the temperature means Castiel is approaching a fever.  
“I’m an angel, I don’t get sick,” Castiel coughs, wincing at the pain in his bone-dry throat. Dean arches an eyebrow.  
“Sorry buddy, but I think the poison did something to make it so your Grace can’t help you with your body. You can sleep obviously, and feel pain and discomfort, so yeah, that poison is messing with your Grace.” Dean says, reaching out to cup the side of Castiel’s face with one palm. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d think Dean was just feeling how hot Cas’ skin is, but something more visceral and sentimental is present in Dean’s eyes, giving him away. Cas doesn’t seem to notice. The seraph is dazed and disoriented, never before having felt his vessel being addled by sickness, hindered by the poison keeping his Grace from fixing the problems.  
“You were not here when I woke up,” Castiel says, his voice rougher and huskier from the sore throat, and possibly from the emotion peeking through. “I was worried that you had been injured.”

Dean looks pensive and deeply contemplative as he tries to absorb the meaning behind this. Why would Cas say this, when he knows where Dean really was and has had his worries eased? Hell, why is Cas worrying about Dean at all, when the angel himself is in such a dangerous condition? A little part of Dean pipes up and answers the question tentatively. Maybe Cas is trying to tell you how you are always his priority, and how he is concerned about you regardless of what is going on with him. Dean huffs, turning his face away so Cas and Sam can’t see how touched he is by something so simple. Man, is he going soft.  
“That’s okay, Cas. I’m fine, Sam and I both. What we’re worried about is you. The witch injected you with her poison or some shit, and you just blacked out and shut down. Now that you’re awake, how are you feeling?” Dean asks, scrambling to focus the attention on Cas and not his inability to repress emotion involving the angel.

Castiel looks like he is struggling to put how his body is feeling into words. Dean can only imagine how strange it must be for him, never having had to describe how the body he is inhabiting is feeling when all its ever felt with him inside is the exact same. Any human feeling whatsoever surrounding the physical vessel has always been taken care of by Cas’ Grace. and now he is feeling very weak and very human. It’s fitting, in a deranged way, how the soft, vulnerableness of the vessel- now Cas’ body- is matching up with the way he’s been perceiving and feeling in his mind for a while now. The compassion, loyalty, protectiveness and devotion he’s felt for the Winchester brothers (especially Dean) has always been a more human trait of the angel’s, and now even his vessel is feeling human.  
Castiel’s brothers and sisters would think that the human way of feeling and interpreting emotion- love, as Castiel has learned- is weak, but Castiel knows in earnest that that love is the only thing that truly gives him life, happiness and purpose now. Castiel clears his throat, redirecting his thoughts to Dean’s question, sensing the hunter is waiting expectantly. The action of clearing whatever is clogging his throat is akin to that of scrubbing steel wool on the raw walls of it, and he is startled by the discomfort such a small, typical movement can cause. “I- my body feels...weak. And unnaturally hot. There is a burning sensation in my chest, and my throat is dry, perhaps from lack of water. My head feels clouded and slower than usual, and of course, there’s the fact that my Grace is not under my control….” 

Sam and Dean exchange a look, and Cas involuntarily groans again, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as the burning in his chest intensifies, reaching out with fiery fingers to graze his stomach and throat, filling his chest with what feels like acid. Dean pops the lid off a the Ibuprofen bottle and shakes two pills into his palm, then sets them on the night stand. “You can take these painkillers with some food and water, it should make you feel better,” Dean offers, his voice gentle and sympathetic enough that Sam notices. Dean helps Castiel sit up, propping him up with pillows stacked against the headboard, while Sam brings over the bag of Chinese take out. Dean sits beside Cas and Sam sits on the edge of his bed facing them, distributing containers. 

Dean got Sam his favorite- beef and broccoli over white rice- and Sam digs in eagerly as Dean passes Cas a container of sweet and sour chicken on white rice, slipping a plastic fork into Cas’ free hand. “Eat up. It’s your first time eating, so I made sure to get the good stuff,” Dean remarks, offering a disarming smile in hopes of perking the increasingly more miserable Cas up. Castiel stares inquiringly at the container in his hands, slowly opening it up, a small cloud of steam exiting when he does. The smell of Chinese food fills his nose, and he feels his stomach churn at the strong scent. Dean is devouring his Mongolian beef and fried rice, passing an egg roll over to Sam, who is eating just as eagerly as his brother. Castiel doesn’t understand if his food is just of lower quality than theirs or what, but whatever it is, his is distinctly unappetizing, his flip-flopping stomach a testament to that. 

“I believe I am thirsty,” Castiel states, realizing that water is what his body must be needing right now, if it is rejecting food. Dean nods, reaching over to hand Cas a bottle of water while still chewing.  
“Take the pills with the water. Do you know how?” Dean aks through cheeks full of food. Castiel tests it out, placing the pills on the back of his tongue, bitterness exploding out over his taste buds, and takes a big swig of water into his mouth. He swallows, and the water carries the pills down his throat. Dean pats Cas’ shoulder, smiling as he swallows the mouthful of food. “There you go! Easy as pie. Man, I should’ve got some pie. Damn.” Dean chuckles to himself as Cas smiles exhaustedly. He liked how the water felt on his burning throat, liked how it did a little to satisfy the discomfort in his body. He takes another drink, and then he is unable to keep himself from gulping down the remainder of the water, his control shutting off as acute need takes over. Dean gives him another bottle of water and Cas drinks that one without stopping too.  
“How’s the food?” Dean asks a few minutes later, him and Sam having split the last egg roll in half to share between them. Castiel scrutinizes the cooling chicken with a thick red sauce coating it, sitting atop a bed of white grains.  
“It is rather unappetizing I’m afraid. My stomach….rejects the thought of having to ingest it,” Castiel replies, his voice apologetic and mystified. Dean spears a chunk of beef and a golden brown piece of onion onto his fork, then holds it up, offering it to the angel.  
“Try some of mine,” Dean says. Cas eyes the food speculatively before leaning over and closing his mouth around the food skewered on the tines of the fork Dean still holds, tugging it off with his tongue and lips. He chews awkwardly at first before his jaw naturally falls into the rhythm of it, and he must admit, the salty-yet-spicy tang of the meat paired with the crispness of the onion is a pleasant sensation on his tongue. He finds it enjoyable, and can understand for the first time why humans like to eat so much. 

“Whaddaya think?” Dean asks, grinning crookedly at the look of wonder on the seraph’s face. Cas swallows.  
"it is pleasurable, Dean. Thank you,” Castiel says, the corners of his mouth tilting up in that barely-there smile Dean never gets tired of seeing.  
“You can have the rest and I’ll eat yours,” Dean offers, though he isn’t particularly fond of sweet and sour chicken. Sam, though he hides it well, is a little taken aback at the kind of sacrifice Dean just made. It’s just proving how strongly he cares for Cas and wants him to be happy. Cas nods his thanks, missing the act of affection that is specific to Dean alone, but Sam has faith Cas knows Dean well enough to not have missed it had he not been in a poison-fueled daze. They switch take-out containers and finish up eating. Cas’ stomach roils uncomfortably at having a substance in it for the first time, and the poison probably isn’t helping, but the angel continues to eat, because he likes the taste and he doesn’t want to waste Dean’s food. 

Sam finishes up with his meal and then gets back to work, translating away. Dean clears away the containers and deposits them in the trash. When he returns, Cas’ face is screwed up into a look of pain, and his arms have instinctively lowered to wrap around his stomach. Though Cas is mystified by the things happening to his vessel, Dean understands the position well enough. “Cas?” The angel looks up.  
“My stomach. It feels as if it is being stabbed, from the inside, though of course that is not what is happening-” Dean shushes him, heaving him up off the bed with his hands underneath Cas’ arms, helping him into a standing position. Castiel’s eyes widen as he feels something in him spasm, and the feeling of food climbing back up the passage of which it went down strikes him. Castiel is stumbling, his feet tangling beneath him, unable to support him, and Dean swears under his breath, lifting Cas back into his arms, not at all thinking about how he likes carrying Cas, no. He jogs to the bathroom and releases Cas onto his knees in front of the toilet. Castiel is unable to control the spasming of the muscles in his stomach and throat, his gag reflex working to eject the food in his stomach out of his mouth. 

Dean gently guides Cas’ head over the toilet bowl just in time, one hand on Cas’ shoulder, grounding him and keeping him stable as his feeble, poison-riddled body has trouble supporting itself, while the other hand rubs soothing circles between Cas’ shoulder blades. Castiel is violently ill, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet, muscles in his back straining as his weak body tries to accommodate the force of the food leaving his body the way it came in. Dean murmurs “It’s okay, it’s okay, just let it out,” into his ear comfortingly, essentially holding Cas as he throws up. Minutes later there is nothing left for him to throw up, and Cas groans faintly, body sagging into Dean’s chest. Dean wraps one arm around his shoulders, holding Cas as he turns him around in the circle of his arms to face the hunter.  
“I know, it feels like shit, but it’ll be okay. It’s just the body’s way of trying to detox itself,” Dean reassures him, brushing strands of disheveled hair off Cas’ much too hot forehead. Cas closes his eyes, leaning into Dean’s touch, his body comforted by the strength in the bands of muscle in Dean’s arms, in the strong set of his shoulders as he allows Cas to slump against him, spent of energy. 

“It’s okay,” Dean whispers again, his voice soft and sweet. Castiel leans his forehead on Dean’s shoulder, sucking in steadying breaths as his body recuperates from the disturbing, unfamiliar process. “Let’s get you back to bed. Laying down will help.” Dean practically carries Cas to his bed, the angel dropping down onto the rumbled comforter with a grunt. Dean is once again struck by how sick he looks already, his eyes wracked with discomfort and ringed with a deep purple, the rest of his skin bloodlessly pale. Dean sits beside Cas, pressing the back of his hand against Cas’ sweltering cheek to test his temperature once again. The hunter swears the temperature is only rising. “Drink some more water,” Dean suggests, uncapping a water bottle and handing it over to Cas. He raises a shaking hand and takes it, placing it to his lips, and takes a small sip before returning it.  
“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, feeling both affection and adoration blossom in his chest, the only good among all these new pains he is feeling, at least physically. The full intensity of his gaze is on Dean, and for once, Dean does not look uncomfortable because of it.  
“Try and get some rest,” Dean encourages. Castiel nods, letting his eyes slip shut. 

An hour later, Cas is asleep, Dean has just finished taking a shower, and Sam has finally found some useful information from the witch’s book. “So get this,” Sam starts as Dean is toweling off his hair, rummaging around his duffle bag for a clean pair of boxers. “I think the poison she used on Cas is called ‘phoradendron serotinum adfectus venenum’. It’s made from the extract of mistletoe and a good dose of black magick. Part of the name is latin for mistletoe, which can be highly poisonous when combined with the right things and magick, and another part of it means emotion. So it’s derived from emotional magicks, and we know the source and what it does. It pretty much makes your body expunge all fluids, like it's drying itself up, and to your mind, well, it hacks into the hypothalamus, which controls emotion and stuff like that, and makes it go into overdrive.

“Symptoms start with dehydration, fever, unwillingness to eat, excessive honesty, exhaustion, and, uh, general emotional dependency, is the rough translation of that one. Then it gets worse, where if you try to eat or drink you’ll throw up and shit until there’s nothing left. You develop a cough that gets really bad, and it says here some people literally start hacking up pieces of, or sometimes entire organs. Blood comes out of all orifices...you get migraines and sleep a lot, possibly go into a few comas while your body tries to defend itself...and all along the way your brain goes more and more haywire with feelings and stuff like that,” Sam summarizes, watching Dean for a reaction. Dean looks sick just hearing these things, and scrubs at his face with his hands, clenching his jaw. He’s almost nauseous with fear, worry, concern, and anxiety for Cas.

He can’t- no he won’t- let that shit happen to his angel.


	5. Overdosing and Its Woes

The night is a restless, tense, angsty one for the Winchester brothers. Sam is bent over the desk, shoulders hunched, head bowed, still translating away in search of a cure from the witch’s book. Dean, every time he occasionally looks over at the younger hunter, always sees him rubbing his eyes, blinking rapidly as if to ward off sleep, and alternating between drinks of nearly black coffee and the vile translation potion. Dean himself is perched on the other bed, sitting rigidly on the edge, watching over Cas. Cas’ sleep is unsettled; the angel is tossing and turning, wincing and groaning occasionally, and Dean finds himself checking his temperature every five minutes or so just out of pure anxiety and concern. The fever is going nowhere but up, and the lack of sweat on Cas’ pale skin tells Dean it isn’t breaking either. At this rate, he’s going to have to start getting creative on how he is going to bring it down. 

The hours seem to wear on, painstakingly slow. Dean feels ready to combust from sheer need to do something to at least try and ease Cas’ obvious discomfort, and despite being intensely focused on the translation, Sam is noticing. The taller man pushes back from the desk, swiveling around in his chair to face his brother. Dean feels a twinge of guilt at how exhausted Sam looks, like he’s ready to collapse into bed and sleep for a couple days, but he knows it’s all necessary to save Cas. Still, Dean wishes there’s something, anything he could be doing to help out. Dean’s about to suggest Sam get to bed, that he can take over translating for a couple hours, when Sam interrupts him. “How are you holding up?” Sam asks gently. At first Dean is confused, but all the concern in Sam’s eyes, coupled with his ginger, almost sympathetic tone makes something inside the older Winchester snap. 

“Why do you keep asking me that? I’m fine! I’m sick of you treating me like a child who is about to burst into tears and run for their mom at any second! I’m dealing, okay? I dealt with shit when you died, I dealt with it when you were soulless and when you were a demon blood junkie, I dealt with it when you were on the Trials and dying in front of my eyes day after every damn day and I had to let you, and every fucking time I just kept pushing until you were okay and we got through this. Same thing applies to Cas, right here, right now. So stop acting like I’m gonna break every time I see Cas in that damn bed, all pale and sick, with that fucking poison spreading through his body!” Dean whisper-shouts, trying to keep his voice quiet so that he doesn’t wake up the sleeping angel. The green-eyed man’s breathing has become heavy, and his face is flushed with color.

Sam is a little taken aback by Dean’s outburst, but he guesses he sort of saw it coming. Dean’s body is taut with tension, his hands balled into fists, green eyes livid, and Sam knows his brother well enough to understand the reaction wasn’t because of Sam’s question. It’s because Dean is cracking underneath the worry, concern, and angst he’s hidden better than Sam had expected him to. Only now is Sam seeing the full, core-deep extent of it, of his desire to protect Cas from something he can’t control. It’s shredding through Dean’s emotional capacity, one hacking cough or degree of fever risen at a time. 

Sam just waits patiently, knowing saying anything to Dean while he’s in this volatile state would be the opposite of progress. Dean slowly calms down, his erratic breathing leveling out, the color gradually fading from his cheeks. When Sam thinks his brother is in the safe zone, he speaks. “Dean-” Again, he is cut off.  
“I swear if you try to hug me someone is going to get punched in the face.” Sam has to smirk at the threat, but seconds later the seriousness of the topic leeches away any traces of humor.  
“Dean. I know you don’t want to hear the cliche, but it’s the truth. We’re going to translate that book, find everything we need for the cure, make it, and save Cas. It’s going to be okay, trust me. We’ve been through much worse circumstances- at least this time we have a plan and a way to fix things.” Sam consoles, staring into Dean’s eyes and hoping that he’ll get the unspoken message Sam is trying to communicate. 

Dean does. Sam would never risk his neck in saying it out loud to Dean, but Dean can tell Sam knows the true reason Dean’s confidence and stability is being held together with duct tape and safety pins. Dean knows his brother is startlingly perceptive, and probably guessed Dean’s emotional instability with this is because of Cas. Why Dean is so invested, why he’s doing everything he can and obsessing over what he can’t. It’s because of Cas, and because Dean both needs and loves the angel, though it’s going to take a very brash wake up call for him to acknowledge and figure it out. Sam knows, though. Sam sees everything, and it makes him sad for his brother. He can only imagine what Dean must be going through. 

All Dean can think of is the restless, fevered, poison-riddled angel in his bed. How desperately he needs to do something to make Cas feel better, and to cure him. Dean’s conscious purposefully skips right over the biggest point in all of this, the source of all the fear. Dean’s scared the poison will take Cas away from him, and Dean just wouldn’t be able to live through that. But now is not the time for Dean to get all teary and emotional over feelings or some stupid shit like that. What Dean needs is to get his ass to work and save the angel so he doesn’t have to consider some of the things he fears acknowledging most. Things that he’s worried may be truer and deeper than he’d ever dreamed of. 

They stare at each other for a moment longer, understanding, and then snap right back into business. “Alright, Sammy. Why don’t you get another room and get some sleep? I’m gonna stay here with Cas and keep translating,” Dean says, again casting a forlorn look over at Castiel as he rolls over and buries his face deeper into the flat motel pillows. Sam nods, already grabbing his stuff and jamming it into his bag.  
“Sounds good. Call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll be back to take over in six hours, tops,” Sam promises, barely stifling a yawn as he slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder, laptop tucked under one arm. Dean grunts his affirmation and then starts messing with the thermometer again, planning on taking Cas’ temperature once more before trying his hand at translating. The door shuts quietly behind Sam with a hollow thud, and Dean gets up to lock it before taking a seat where Sam was previously sitting. His eyes are already starting to burn, and he can’t help but grimace as he takes a swig from the quarter empty water bottle filled with translation potion. As it starts to kick in, Dean fumbles around for a pen, resigning himself to a long, sleepless night of reading and writing in hopes of attaining a cure.  
***

Dean is just about to take another revolting drink of translation potion when he’s startled by the sound of gasping, paired with the creaking of the mattress. Dean launches himself out of his chair to come to Cas’ aid, finding the angel sitting up and doubled over at the waist, clutching his middle. Hie eyes are wide and staring pleadingly at Dean, looking bewildered and agonized. “Dean,” Cas manages to choke out, tightening his arms around his midsection as his stomach seems to convulse inside of him. Dean’s swinging the angel into his arms in a heartbeat, sprinting into the bathroom, knowing exactly what’s happening, even if Cas doesn’t. Dean drops to his knees in front of the toilet, and doesn’t even have time to release Cas before he is throwing up, head bowed over the toilet. Cas manages to throw up a mouthful of stomach acid, but there is nothing left in his stomach for his body to eject. The angel is dry heaving, retching violently, his whole body shaking with the force of it. 

The hunter just holds Cas through it, massaging the knotted muscles in his shoulders, mumbling incoherent but hopefully reassuring things in Cas’ ear. With one mighty last heave, Cas crumples back against Dean’s body, and Dean is taken aback by how weak and vulnerable such an immensely powerful creature of Heaven is. It only has the effect of strengthening Dean’s desire to protect, provide and care for his angel. Cas makes a strangled noise against Dean’s collarbone, the sound much too close to a whimper to not send pangs of compassion through Dean’s heart. “Let’s get you back to bed,” Dean murmurs, gently gathering Cas in his arms and carrying him back to Dean’s bed. Dean pulls back the blankets, laying the shuddering angel down on the sheets and pillows. 

The hunter turns to go track down the bottle of Ibuprofen when he feels a hand grasp the back of his shirt. Dean turns to look at Cas, at his vulnerable, big, azure eyes, and his heart positively melts in his chest, complete mush when Cas rasps, “Please stay.” Dean cards a hand through Cas’ hair, fingers rubbing at Cas’ scalp gently.  
“I will, Cas, don’t worry. I’m just going to grab some medicine and water, alright?” Cas nods and lets his hand drop limply back onto the mattress. Dean’s chest aches. Cas is so weak, so wracked by this poison already, Dean can hardly bear for him to suffer. With a little amount of work, Dean tracks down the mostly empty bottle of Advil him and Sam take too much of (always with whiskey) and another bottle of water. On second thought, he changes into some track pants and a holey white t-shirt, deciding Cas needs him right now way more than he needs Dean to translate. It’s okay for them to take a break from it and just care for Cas. The poor angel looks like he really needs it. 

“Alright, here you go. And don’t forget to drink all the water,” Dean adds, handing Cas the bottle and setting the water on the nightstand by his head. “I’m going to pee and brush my teeth real quick. Think you can hang on for that long?” Cas rolls his eyes in response and Dean has to laugh. Even sick, Cas is still unwarrantedly sassy at the best of times. Something about it sparks a little ball of hope in Dean’s chest. Dean hurries off to brush his teeth and use the bathroom, knowing he needs to shave but deciding it can wait until Cas is passed out again. He returns only minutes later, and is satisfied to see the entire water bottle is empty. Cas is straining to sit up, but Dean eases him back down, patting down the disarray of his hair comfortingly. “Just go to sleep, Cas. I’ll be right here. I’m not gonna leave you.”

Dean takes the bottle of pills from Cas but is brought up short when they don’t rattle around in their plastic container. Bemused, Dean pops the lid back and peers inside. There are no more pills. “Cas. Please tell me you did not take all the pills left, buddy. There had to be like ten or something in there!” Dean says, worry bleeding into his tone. Cas blinks up at him, confused and a little behind as to why Dean is upset.  
“Did I do something wrong?” Cas asks, perplexed. Dean’s eyes widen, and he looks from Cas to the container back to Cas again.  
“You’re only supposed to take two! Shit, overdosing can really screw you over! How do you feel?” Dean asks, trying to think of what steps he needs to take next. Calling Poison Control is out of the question-  
“It feels like- burning-” Cas’s pupils blow wide and Dean is swearing, swinging the angel into his arms and booking it back into the bathroom. Cas empties his stomach of all the pills and whatever water he drank, his body spasming as he does so. Dean holds him steady, berating himself over and over for being so stupid as to not have pointed out the correct dosage earlier. 

When Cas’ stomach finally refuses to purge anything, he slumps against Dean once again, eyes slipping shut, face painted red with heat and the rush of blood beneath his skin. Dean’s about to get up when Cas raises a clammy hand and presses his palm to Dean’s cheek, cupping the side of his face. “Stay.” Dean sifts his fingers through Cas’ hair, a gesture Cas seems to enjoy and find pleasing and calming.  
“I will.” Dean carries Cas over to the bed, pulling off the comforter and wrapping it around the shivering angel, and walks back to the bathroom, sitting down and leaning his back up against the wall for support. “Guess we’re just gonna camp out here for tonight, buddy. Don’t want you to have to keep getting up.” Dean comments lightheartedly, stroking his hand through Cas’ hair as the angel settles into him, conforming to his shape and going completely limp in Dean’s arms. Dean reaches an arm up and turns off the light, then relaxes back further, trying to ignore how he feels like beaming stupidly at Cas curling up against his chest, like he needs to be close to Dean just so he can breathe. 

One hand rubs up and down Cas’ too-hot back, Dean’s arm flexed protectively around the seraph’s shoulders, while the other continues to run through Cas’ mussed-up hair. The angel makes a quiet but happy little humming noise in the back of his throat, nestling closer to Dean before his breathing levels out, dropping him off into sleep. Dean doesn’t let go, just holds him, shocked but not really at how right holding Cas like this feels, and by how much he’s wanted this and for how long. Cas seems to sleep more peacefully, and after a good half hour or so, Dean decides Cas is under enough for Dean to do some maintenance. Cas’ lips are dry and cracked, on the verge of bleeding, and the hunter can’t just leave him like that. He reaches up on the counter and grabs the Chapstick and Vaseline he uses during the winter when the cold air dries out his skin. Dean uncaps the Chapstick and gently smoothes it over Cas’ sweltering lips, then dips his fingertip in the Vaseline and glides his finger over their chapped surface.  
Content with his work, Dean shoves the stuff over to the side and smiles at Cas, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder tighter. 

Nothing feels more natural than the kiss Dean plants tenderly on the top of Cas’ head before dozing off into a light sleep.


	6. Essence of Flesh and Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fuckton of thanks to my beta Astrophilla for her amazing editing abilities and all the effort she put into making this fic publishing-worthy!! You are the god of betas, thank you for blessing me with your lovely gift. <3

Dean is awoken on the bathroom floor by familiar too-big hands clasping his shoulders and shaking him into consciousness. He opens his eyes into slits, glaring at the form of his brother crouching before him, whispering “Dean,” over and over in a half-assed attempt to be quiet. “I’m up!” Dean snaps agitatedly, his arms automatically tightening around the sleeping, mojoless angel who has completely melted against him. “Keep it down, would you? Cas is sleeping and I sure as hell don’t want him waking up and throwing up all over me,” Dean warns, rolling his eyes at Sam’s answering bitch face. His brother’s expression is short lived though; Sam’s eager to tell him something, and it comes through. 

“Essence of flesh and bone! That’s the first ingredient to the cure! I read ahead this morning, identified the cure by the symptoms, figured out the chapter and started to translate the ingredients, which luckily for us, there actually is. ‘Essence of flesh and bone of the ailed’- which roughly means you need the ‘essence’ of the being. For a human it would mean bone marrow, but for an angel…. My best guess is a physical manifestation of Cas’ Grace, since that is pretty much the equivalent to our bones. We just have to ask him what the easiest way of getting a piece of it could be.”

Dean feels simultaneously excited and reluctant at the prospect. He’s glad they’re making progress, a step closer to healing Cas than they were before, but the idea of wrenching away part of Cas sacred Grace sickens him. What are they supposed to do, slit Cas’ throat and bottle what pours out, just like Metatron did? Revulsion and anger curl through him, his free hand carding through Cas’ hair as if to provide comfort for them both. He won’t ever let something like that happen to Cas again. The idea of him losing the angel hurts worse than having to harm him to save his life, though the hunter hates the prospect of doing so, period. 

“I’ll ask him when he wakes up,” Dean replies warily, his eyes lowering to fix on the trusting, weak form of his angel. Normally he would be mortified and humiliated to have his brother find him cradling Cas on the bathroom floor, clinging to the angel like it’s Dean who is going to keel over without him and not the other way around. Right now though, he doesn’t give a single fuck. Cas is poisoned, he’s sick, and he needs him. If Cas needs to be held and cared for, then Dean is going to do exactly that. It’s always been the one thing he’ll go to impossible lengths to do. If that implies holding Cas while he sleeps near a toilet just in case he gets sick again, then so be it. Sam will have to understand. 

Sam nods, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms as he yawns. Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously. “How much sleep did you get?” he demands.  
“Seven hours or so. I would’ve came earlier if I hadn’t slept through the alarm,” his brother replies apologetically. Dean breathes a sigh of relief.  
“No, no, that’s good. You needed some rest. You can take a break from translating while we figure out how to get a physical piece of Cas’ Grace,” Dean tells him.  
“Sounds good. I’m gonna go pick up some breakfast since I doubt we’re going anywhere anytime soon. Any requests?” Sam prompts, already fishing around for his wallet and going through the pocket of Dean’s favorite leather jacket for the keys to the Impala.  
“Not really, just get a fuckton of coffee. And some pie wouldn’t hurt.” Sam arches an eyebrow at that, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth.  
“Really, Dean? Pie for breakfast?” Dean glares without any real heat.  
“My back hurts like a sonovabitch so yeah, pie for breakfast. I deserve at least one good thing in life.” Sam snorts, slinging his jacket over his shoulder as he opens the door, steps through, and shuts it, the tumblers of the locks filling the silence as Sam secures them behind him. 

Dean huffs a tired sigh, staring at the door for a few seconds after Sam disappears before allowing his eyes to fall back onto Cas. The angel’s head is bent at what looks like a painful angle on Dean’s shoulder, cheek nestled against the nape of his neck, and the curve of his back along Dean’s side doesn’t look like the most comfortable thing in the world either. Deciding that moving him back to the bedroom can’t do him any more damage than he’s already done himself, Dean moves into action. The hunter secures his grip on Cas, bundling him up against his chest, and heaves himself to his feet, tucking Cas’ head under his chin to prevent it from lolling over -- a motion that would be sure to wake the sleeping seraph. Dean carries him over the the bed, lying him down in the mess of sheets, then takes his time pulling them up to Cas’ neck, making sure his whole body is wrapped up tight in the warm blankets. 

Since Dean is a man who likes to be prepared, he sets the mini plastic garbage can at the side of the bed, right below Cas’ head, so if he gets sick this time, he won’t have to try and make it all the way to the bathroom. As Dean shuffles around the bed, the angel curls in on himself, contorting into a tight ball beneath the blankets, lines of worry creasing his forehead and furrowing his eyebrows. Dean frowns as he watches, confused, when a bloodlessly pale hand reaches out and tangles itself in his rumpled t-shirt. Cas blinks his eyes open blearily, squinting up at Dean as if there is too much light in the room for him to filter out. “Stay,” Cas begs, his rough, scratchy voice even more heartbreaking. Dean’s self control completely melts at the sight.

He’s distinctly reminded of when Sam was little and would have a nightmare, and he’d get up and stand at the side of Dean’s bed with tears in his eyes, looking like a lost puppy. Dean would scoot to one side of the bed back then, lifting the covers just enough so that his brother could climb in but not enough to let all the heat out. Sam would burrow into bed next to him, mashing his face into Dean’s shoulder, his thin form trembling with suppressed sobs. Dean would rub his back and hug him close, offering both the comfort of his presence and his gentle reassurances. Sam would fall asleep fairly quickly with his big brother keeping him safe from whatever terrors would haunt his dreams. Right now, Dean sees the same fear and acute need in Cas’ eyes as he had seen in Sam’s on those nights so long ago. The sight tugs at something deep and visceral in his chest; there’s no way in Heaven or Hell Dean could deny him.

In another way, this is also very unlike those times with Sam. Somehow this feels intimate in a distinctly different way. Not like brothers, but something different Dean doesn’t want to analyze and mull over right now. At the moment, he’s going to do what feels right and stay. “Scooch over, Cas,” Dean murmurs, lifting the corner of the blankets as the angel struggles to shift himself over. He knows he should be a little more reluctant, but the only thing he feels is an uncanny desire to be close to Cas, where he can keep him safe, even if it’s just for a while. As Dean slides in between the sheets, a few inches away from the ball of angel, he feels a rush of something unnameable at the thought of finally being able to help Cas, just as the angel was sacrificing himself to do for Dean.

Cas rolls across the little space between them to snuggle into Dean’s form, fitting the lines of his body to those of the hunter’s. He’s mildly surprised at first but it ebbs away as Cas nuzzles his face into Dean’s neck. The gesture is so painfully defenseless, and trusting that it makes something in Dean’s chest ache. He curses himself for being so pathetic. The important thing is helping Cas feel better, there’s no point overthinking it. The train of thought is chased out of his mind when he notices the way Cas’ fingers curl into his shirt, like the angel is clinging to him for reasons he isn’t really brave enough to think about. He looks so damn vulnerable, and it breaks Dean’s heart. How the hell could a mighty Angel of the Lord be brought to his knees like this by just some shitty witches? Dean vows he is going to do everything in his power to save Cas as he wraps an arm around his waist, the closeness filling him with a warmth like spilling honey.

Is this what it feels like, to finally find your other half or some other sappy shit like that? Dean wonders, gazing at Cas fondly. He might be crazy, but he’s humoring the possibility for the first time without running in the opposite direction. It’s not like the way he feels about Sam, and it’s light years away from anything he’s ever felt for the random girls he has taken to bed over the years. It’s a weird feeling that makes his pulse jump in his chest, but he just can’t find it in himself to panic when everything feels so right with Cas exactly where he is. Minus the poison, he amends with a scowl.

Dean’s interrupted from his thoughts by Sam’s return. Dean manages to disentangle himself from Cas just before his brother comes in, struggling to lift his body up and smooth the sheets down underneath him so they don’t like so much like spooning teenagers. Sam gives his brother a weird look at the sight of Dean perching awkwardly on the bed and trying to fix the mess he made out of the covers, but to Dean’s relief his only remark is a raised eyebrow, not particularly seeming to care. He gives Dean a plastic grocery bag of food from one hand and a large cup of coffee from the other, who grunts out a thanks and takes a big drink, ignoring how the hot liquid scalds his throat on the way down. Sam rummages through the bag, pulling out a cup of strawberry yogurt and peeling the lid off as he hands a hefty slice of pre-packaged blackberry pie over to Dean, who shoots him a grin and digs in.

“Dean?” Cas croaks, and Dean turns to face him, expression softening at the way Cas had said his name with so much desperation and pain.  
“Right here, buddy. How are you feeling?” Dean asks, realizing a second later guiltily that he probably woke Cas up scrambling out of bed like that.  
“Not well,” Cas murmurs, blinking as he looks at the brothers. Sam gives him a sympathetic smile and then tells him the news.  
“We figured out the first step to getting you better! We need a physical manifestation of your Grace, what do you think would be the easiest way to get one?” Sam asks. Cas screws his face up in concentration as he thinks.  
“A feather from my wings will most likely do,” Cas answers weakly, seeming a little more alert now that his mind is on the task at hand. Sam nods, apparently happy with the progress.  
“Think you could get one for us real quick? Then if you’re feeling up to it, I brought back some donuts, or fruit, whatever sounds better,” Sam notes. Cas nods, squinting his eyes in focus.  
“You and Dean will need to close your eyes and leave the room, because until I can pluck a feather and make it tangible on this physical plane, the sight of my wings will burn your eyes out,” Cas explains. Dean frowns, concern puckering his brow.  
“That won’t hurt you, right? It’s cool if you do that?” The logical part of Dean berates himself for asking, because what other choice do they have even if it does hurt? But he still can’t satisfy the festering worry without getting an answer.  
“No, Dean, it will not injure me. I’d compare it to pulling a strand of hair from your head,” Cas clarifies. Dean’s relieved almost to the point of sighing in expression of it.

“Oh, right. Well, Sam and I’ll just go wait in the bathroom, okay? If you need us, just put your wings away and holler,” Dean advises. He and Sam retreat into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them and mashing their eyes closed. The only sound is the brothers’ breathing; there is no sign of Cas pulling his wings out at all. Dean waits eagerly, wondering what it could possibly look like out there. His thoughts stutter to a halt when he hears a groan, followed by a loud crash. 

“Fuck! Cas!” he yells, opening his eyes. No light seeps from under the bathroom door, so Dean decides it’s safe enough. He throws the door open and runs over to the bed, finding the nightstand toppled over, lamp a broken pile of glass on the floor, and the unconscious, slumped form of his angel right on top of the whole mess. Dean crouches down and anxiously pulls Cas’ limp form into his arms, and as he deposits him on the bed, he notices what is clutched in the angel’s right hand. 

A single long, black feather.


	7. Karma's a Bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Astrophilla <3

A moment later, Sam is depositing the single feather into a plastic gallon baggie with ‘cure shit’ sharpied on in Dean’s messy hand, while the older hunter finishes tucking a comatose Cas back into bed. Dean straightens up as soon as he secures the sheets underneath Cas’ chin, then releases a heavy sigh, dragging his hand down over his face. “Can you hand me the thermometer?” Dean asks, and Sam crouches by his bag, digging through it to find the emergency kit at the bottom. Dean busies himself with checking Cas’ pulse, which is thrumming far too fast for his liking and frowns, now nervous to see what his temperature will be, considering his skin feels like a coal stove to the touch.

Sam tosses Dean the thermometer and then plunks himself down at the desk, flipping the book open and unscrewing the cap of the nearly half-empty translation potion. Dean turns the thermometer on and carefully slides it past Cas’ slightly parted lips, poking it underneath his tongue. The hunter holds it in place, listening to the sound of pages turning while he studies Cas’ blank face. The thermometer beeps, and when Dean pulls it out, he blanches at the reading of 103.3 degrees. “Fuck,” Dean growls under his breath, wiping the device off on his jeans before throwing it back into the open kit on the ground. “He’s got a fever, and it’s already fucking high enough for him to need a hospital,” Dean announces. 

Sam frowns sympathetically, and Dean wonders if he’s reminded of the time he had a fever to rival Cas’. Dean had been fourteen and Sam ten, and Dad had been on a hunt for awhile, leaving them holed up in a shitty motel room with a dwindling supply of Cheerios and canned chicken noodle soup. Dean always watched -- and still does -- Sam like a hawk, so the instant he started feeling under the weather Dean was careful to track the fever’s progress, unable to do anything but keep Sam on bed arrest and make sure his water bottle was always filled and within reach. The kid just got worse and worse, fever skyrocketing, and no amount of calls to Dad’s cell phone made a difference. Dean read to Sam, tried to keep him comfortable on more meds than was probably safe, and reassured him over and over. Dean was on the verge of calling 911 when Sam’s fever hit 104, but Dad showed up just in time to stop him.

Sam gets up with a sigh, closes the cure book, and tells Dean he’s going to take a shower to clear his head. The younger Winchester crosses the room, then disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Dean hears the water turn on, and then shakes away the shitty flashbacks in favor of bending down to start cramming the rolls of gauze, packages of bandages and antiseptic wipes down so the first aid kit will close, when suddenly three loud, angry raps sound on the door. Dean freezes, whipping around on heels to face the door, and instinctively reaches underneath Cas’ head on his pillow for his trusty handgun, releasing the safety as he creeps over to the door. The knocks sound again, this round more violent, and Dean squints through the peephole in the door to find two cops standing right outside.

“Aw fuck, what did we do now?” he grumbles to himself as he shoves his gun into the waistband of his jeans, keeping it out of sight as he unlocks the deadbolt on the door. Dean really doesn’t need this right now. He’s got a dying angel on his hands and a little brother frantically trying to find a cure for said angel’s poison. Whatever this is, it better be over with fast. With that thought, he opens the door a crack and peers through at the two police officers.  
“Jesse Ackles?” the taller of the two cops asks, his gaze flicking up and down Dean as if in search of a weapon.  
“What seems to be the problem, officers?” Dean replies, unable to keep the tiny inflection of sarcasm out of his voice. The tall cop’s partner shoulders past Dean and into the motel room, and before Dean can complain, the other cop follows and now the three of them are crowded into the room. Dean is momentarily relieved he managed to hoard all their weapons out of sight, but that will only hold true if they don’t decide to search the room. The older Winchester decides he won’t let it get that far.

“You are under arrest for several accounts of credit card fraud,” the tall cop announces, then gestures with a tilt of his head to where Cas is asleep, probably telling his partner to check him out or something Dean is definitely not going to let happen.  
“No one touches that man,” Dean growls when he sees the shorter cop place one hand on the gun tucked into his hip holster and approach Cas.  
“On your knees,” the taller officer barks, kicking the backs of Dean’s heels and removing his handcuffs from his belt. “Hands behind your back!”  
“Sonovabitch,” Dean grinds out, hand going to the gun in his pants and ripping it out in one fluid motion. The cop’s eyes widen almost comically when he sees Dean wielding the pistol, and makes a move to draw his own, when Dean flips the gun in his hand and slams the butt of it into the police officer’s temple. The swing has so much calculated power behind it and has been performed so many times, Dean knocks him out with just the blow alone. He stumbles backwards, feet tripping over each other, and falls hard on the ground, a huge pile of sprawled out limbs. Dean looks up to find the other cop standing right next to Cas, but facing the hunter, gun drawn held with both hands, sights lined up on Dean’s chest.

“On the ground! Now! Drop your weapon, hands in where I can see them!” The cop screams, eyes darting over to his felled partner and then right back to lock on Dean. “Get on your belly! NOW!” He commands, inching forward and flexing his finger on the trigger.  
“How am I supposed to do all those things at once? One at a time, man,” Dean jokes, but makes no move to comply. The officer has had enough. He keeps one hand wrapped around the gun, but the other moves swiftly to unclip his taser from belt, and before Dean can even process the motion, Sam bursts out of the bathroom. He’s got a too-small motel towel wrapped around his waist and is dripping wet, as if he heard the skirmish going on outside and barely remembered to cover himself before coming to the rescue. Before the police officer can taser Dean, Sam tackles him bodily to the ground, the momentum behind the attack sending them both plowing into the recently-righted nightstand and knocking it over. The cup that was on top of it splashes water all over a now very awake Cas and shatters on the ground, the sound of it crunching beneath the wrestling pair snapping Dean back into action. 

The older hunter bounds over to them, yanking the taser out of the cop’s grasp and then pauses for a second, debating whether or not to press the button. For fear of accidentally tasering his brother, Dean makes his mind up and instead jams the taser in a tight right hook under the man’s jaw, snapping his head backwards. The skin over Dean’s knuckles splits and bleeds, but the cop is now sagging, unconscious, on top of Sam, who is shoving him off and picking himself up, trying to adjust his towel to cover him better. Dean snatches Sam’s arm, looking over it assessingly. “You okay? No broken glass in your flesh?” Dean demands, moving to check Sam’s other arm.  
“I’m good. Just not happy about cutting my shower short to save your ass,” Sam throws back with a tired smile “What happened, anyways? I literally just left the room.” Dean scratches the back of his neck, both sheepish and annoyed.  
“Dodgy credit card,” he grunts, assuming Sam can connect the dots from there. He extends a hand to help his brother stand and dusts the shards of glass off his jeans, mentally checking himself for any injuries. Finding none, Dean turns to Cas, whose cheeks are a bright red, half of his hair plastered to his face from sweat and water, looking delirious and pained.  
“Shit, sorry Cas, we had a, um, minor problem just now. But we’ll be fine, as long as we high-tail it out of here.” Dean remarks, looking from one passed out cop to the other. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be here when reinforcements arrive or one of them wakes up. Sorry to cut your hair conditioning process short, Sammy.”

Sam sighs and drops his towel, hurriedly slipping on boxers and jeans, while Dean instructs him to grab their stuff and meet him in the car. A quick glance out the window tells him it’s pouring rain, and he grumbles under his breath as he worries over how he is going to maneuver a very sick Cas into the car. Sam is already fully clothed, their bags slung over his shoulder and telling Dean to hurry up as he heads out the door and into the downpour. Cas is blinking up sleepily at him, his eyes strikingly blue, something about them painfully vulnerable and trusting as they gaze up at Dean. “S’okay, buddy, we’re gonna get you outta here,” Dean reassures him, reaching down to gather Cas in his cocoon of blankets to his chest. Cas makes a strange noise that sounds almost like a whimper, and Dean’s heart shudders in his chest. “It’s okay,” he repeats, cradling Cas to his chest more tightly and using his free hand to tug at the blankets to cover Cas’ shoulders and head in hopes of sheltering him from the rain. 

Dean keeps murmuring sweet nothings in Cas’ ear as he adjusts the angel’s weight in his arms, one hand coming up to cup the back of his neck and support his head where it lolls against the nape of Dean’s neck. Cas’ way too hot breath rasps against his skin, and the sound of his little pitiful snuffles strike Dean with a new round of overwhelming desire to protect and care for the angel. “Hang in there,” Dean says, securing his grip on Cas once more, then steels himself for running through the rain. The hunter books it past the doorway, slamming it shut behind him, then rushes towards where Sam waits in the Impala. A police car with lights flashing is parked right next to her, and Dean assumes it must belong to the two cops in the motel room, otherwise he’d be being stormed by more of them.

The rain pelts them with fat, icy drops that are whipping viciously sideways. They sting Dean’s cheeks where they make contact, and he grips the blankets tighter around Cas in hopes that none of his skin is bared to them. Cas starts coughing and hacking violently, body nearly convulsing in Dean’s arms with the force of it, and Dean grits his teeth and sprints faster. Even when a wet, sticky spray splatters Dean’s neck and collarbone, he keeps running, despite the fear spiking through him at nauseating levels. After what feels like an eternity, Dean makes it to the Impala, and doesn’t hesitate to rip the backdoor open and dive in, slamming it behind him. Sam is behind the wheel, twisting the key over and over in the ignition with a look of panic on his face. 

“The engine won’t start!” Sam says, and Dean wants to bang his head against the window until he dies.  
“Are you serious? Cops are gonna be here any minute, and this is the one damn time my baby won’t start?” Dean yells, exasperated. Cas shivers against him, curling closer to his body heat, and the hunter doesn’t even realize how his hand starts to card comfortingly through Cas’ hair on instinct.  
“Why the actual hell would I joke about something like that?” Sam retorts, pulling a bitchface.  
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Dean gripes. “Keep trying! Baby never gives up on us, dammit! We aren’t giving up on her!” Sam complies, continuing to twist the key back and forth, the two of them holding their breaths in anticipation of the roar of the engine. Dean adjusts Cas’ position to lay him down in the hunter’s lap, tucking the blankets closer around him and swiping the soaked curls off Cas’ sweltering forehead. He feels the blood Cas coughed up slick on his clavicle, sees it smeared at the corners of Cas’ lips, and he’s enveloped in panic at how seriously screwed they’ve become so fast. Cas is launching into another coughing fit, and the coughs wracking his body escalate until he’s gagging, then pushing the door open to throw up on the pavement outside. Dean just pats his back, dread making his mouth go dry and his heart thump fast against his ribcage.

As soon as Cas finishes retching Dean tugs him back into the shelter of the car and shuts the door, then carefully sets his head on the seat and leans into the front to fix the problem himself. “Move over,” Dean tells Sam, draping his body over the bench seat as he reaches down towards the floor. It’s at that moment they both freeze at the all too familiar sound of shrill, piercing sirens, quickly approaching. “Mother fuck,” Dean spits, then digs his fingers into the compartment under the dash, curls his fingers around the wires, and starts messing with them until they’re detached. Mentally crossing his fingers, Dean connects the two ends of the blue and red wire and the engine jumps to life, the sound like hearing a baby’s first cry as soon as it enters the world.

“Drive, Sam, drive!” Dean orders, sitting back in his seat and twisting his head so he can see the three police cars behind them. Sam doesn’t need to be told twice; he buries the gas, the engine snarling and sending the tires spinning on the wet pavement until they find purchase, and then they’re gunning it out of the parking lot with the police hot on their tail. Dean takes Cas’ pulse, checks his breathing, and both are racing each other, as if to see who will work itself to death first. Dean wraps his arms around Cas and draws him in close, feeling the angel’s slight, shuddering frame burrow up against him, seeking warmth, safety and familiarity when everything seems to be going to hell. Sam is pushing Baby to her limit, the needle on the speedometer spiking to the far right, and the scenery outside is passing by in a smear of green and brown blurs.  
“Talk about ride or die,” Dean grunts as he laces his fingers through Cas’ wet hair and prepares himself for a good old fashioned car chase.


	8. Always Wear Your Seatbelt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Astrophilla <3

“Is Cas still conscious?” Sam asks, eyes flicking over to where Dean is huddled around Cas’ shuddering form, hunched over the sick angel defensively.  
“He’s fine! Keep your eyes on the damn road!” Dean barks as they nearly swerve off the highway just by that split second of distraction and a millimeter of turning the wheel. Sam’s eyes snap back to the front and he tightens his grip on the wheel, knuckles going bone white as he accelerates even more. Baby’s engine whines in protest, a guttural low growl that Dean feels thrumming in his bones. His heart is pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, so violently he wonders if Cas can hear it through his shirt. The piercing, shrill sound of multiple sirens going off right behind them isn’t helping, sending Dean’s desperation skyrocketing as the police cars close in and Cas coughs more blood over the seats.

“See if you can lose them at the intersection up ahead,” Dean encourages, looking over his shoulder. There are now a total of four police cars riding their bumper, all of them vying to get into position and cut them off. Sam is putting up a fight though, driving uncharacteristically aggressively. Dean is doing everything he can to focus on the arm he has wrapped around Cas, and only that, or he’s sure as hell going to lose the thin semblance of control he’s maintaining. Sam slows down just a bit to take a sharp turn, and the Impala nearly completes it on two wheels, whipping around the bend so fast Dean’s surprised they didn’t flip. He tightens his arms around Cas, securing the angel to him instinctively as they slam up against the door as the car turns. 

The police cars are gaining on them, and realistically, Dean knows they won’t be able to keep this up much longer. Their only option is to lose the hoard of cops, and doing so at this speed will be nearly impossible. “Mother fuck,” Sam mutters as he jerks the wheel to pass a slow-moving car ahead of them. The movement in itself nearly sends them plowing into another car that Sam has to brake hard to avoid rear-ending, and the police behind him are definitely not anticipating that. Two of the cars barrel past in the other lane, while the other two swerve to avoid hitting the slowed Impala. Sam jerks the wheel to the left at the same time to avoid the inevitable crash, which ends them right in each other’s path. Everything seems to slow like in some shitty action film, and Dean feels utterly disconnected, watching blankly as each detail falls into place.

The Impala is pulled just a few inches in front of the police cars right behind it, but as they move to the side to avoid colliding, the two cars slam directly into their right side, the deafening sound of metal wrenched from metal splitting Dean’s ears. The impact comes next, and the car feels weightless for a few exhilarating seconds before all hell breaks loose. Gravity fucks itself over and Baby is flipping over, the momentum throwing her onto her side and then roof to skid upside down along the guardrail lining the highway. Sam is yelling in shock but Dean is incredibly thankful to see his brother is pinned to his seat by his seatbelt. Dean and Cas, however, in their rush to evacuate the motel parking lot, never got around to putting theirs on, and they are suffering the consequences of that now. 

Dean curls himself protectively around Cas, trying to shield the nearly comatose angel with his body as they flip. His arms are constricted around Cas’ waist and he has Cas’ head tucked underneath his chin. They slam hard onto the roof as it hits the pavement, and Dean manages to angle himself underneath Cas to absorb the impact, keeping his stone grip on him as his teeth slam together so hard he feels one of his molars chip. Blood fills his mouth and clogs his throat as he’s thrown against the window, the back of his head cracking painfully against the glass before his rigid body drops to the roof, pressed against the back of Sam’s seat as they fly across the highway. A keening, grating sound rips through the air as the Impala’s roof grinds against the concrete, and Dean feels like his head might explode from both the noise and the point of lacerating pain at the back of his skull.

The Impala eventually comes to a stop, glass popping and shattering as it settles. The whirl of chaos pulls into scary clarity, and little details absorb into Dean’s mind before he can process the reality of things. Some dark substance -- blood -- is dripping from the bottom of the car above them. The window where Dean’s head hit is starred with spider web cracks. Cas’ stolen motel sheet blanket is tangled around one of Dean’s arm and over Cas shoulder and back, the white material splattered with more blood. The older hunter realizes Sam is still strapped to his seat, hanging upside down but still far safer than them. His ears ring, but he can see Sam unbuckling his seat belt and dropping onto all fours, crawling into the back seat with them, mouth moving, but Dean’s ears unable to register the words. Suddenly Cas’ face is mere inches from his, and his breath is stolen by anxious oceanic eyes searching his.

“Dean? Dean! Dean, are you okay? Are you alright? Are you injured?” Cas is asking brokenly. The angel’s hands come up to cup Dean’s face, examining the cut underneath his eye from broken glass, thumb gently dabbing at the blood welling there.  
“Holy shit Dean, it’s going to be okay, we’re going to get you out of here,” he hears Sam chant, and watches his brother shifting agilely amid the mangled backseat, laying on his back and then rabbit kicking the non-destroyed door open. “Come on, we gotta move,” Sam urges, swinging his lower body out of the car and standing on the road, bent forward to pull the two still in the car out behind him. Dean looks over Sam’s shoulder and can see police cars piled up against the guardrail behind them, just as smashed, sirens still blaring hideously. “Dean?” Sam says, his voice now laden with worry as he gets a better look at his dazed brother. Cas is still trying to get him to respond, trying to cradle him in his arms, and the fear in Cas’ eyes is both bewildering and painful to look at. Dean hates seeing it there -- the angel should be worried about himself, not Dean. 

Sam grips Dean’s shoulders firmly and tugs him through the broken glass and over the destroyed bench seat, pulling him out of the car and standing him on his feet. Dean manages to balance precariously just long enough for Sam to pull Cas out, and Dean’s heart aches at the sight of the terrified angel reaching for him. His body still feels like it’s in too much shock to properly register the various aches and pains it is now riddled with, but one thing does have Dean’s full attention: his head feels like it’s going to break open, but he’s spinning like he might just fly off the face of the earth. His body feels unnaturally light and he’s too tall to keep his balance -- how did he ever manage standing without stumbling before? -- and before he can choose to sit down, his legs decide for him by giving out and he collapses, body dropping towards the ground like a sack of broken bricks, sending Dean falling right into Sam. Sam catches him, grunting as his arms coil around Dean’s waist and support all his weight. The older hunter teeters precariously on the verge of unconsciousness, but some distant, yet undeniably loud part of his mind won’t let him.

Cas. Castiel. Dean knows he’s got to stay awake for Cas, has to make sure the angel is okay, has to protect him from cops and crashes and sickness. “Cas,” Dean rasps, eyes glancing around blindly for the seraph, not seeing through the blood trickling into his eyes. Sam drags Dean to his feet, hefting one of his older brother’s arms around his shoulders and using his free arm to keep Dean upright. Dean’s feet drag aimlessly over the concrete as Sam totes him over to a police car that had managed to brake before getting into the huge crash behind the Impala. The lights are flashing, sirens screaming, but the door to the driver’s side has been left wide open in one cop’s haste to save his comrades. Dean’s senses are tunneling, not registering anything going on around him but for a few random details as he drifts.

The next thing Dean is aware of, he’s sprawled out under Cas on the back seat of the cruiser, identifiable by the bars blocking him from Sam, who must be driving. Cas’ weight on top of him makes his various injuries ache and lance bolts of hot pain through him, but it’s too reassuring for him to care. Cas is here, Cas is where Dean can keep him safe, and that’s all the hunter needs. One of his arms -- the one pinned to his belly underneath Cas -- is in gut-wrenching pain, so he uses the other to drape over Cas’ back, curling his fingers into his borrowed shirt and clinging on, like if he just holds on tight enough, somehow they will both be okay. 

Bits and pieces filter through to Dean, like how the commotion of sirens and glass breaking has been replaced with the steady hum of the engine, the low scrape of Cas’ and his breath, and the pounding of blood in his ears. Red obscurs the older Winchester’s vision, and all he feels is red: red hot pain, red heat, the slickness of red blood. The calmness of a previously desperate Cas tells Dean he’s asleep, and with this knowledge, Dean himself lets go of the mental ledge he’s clinging to and and joins the angel in oblivious unconsciousness.

***

When the hunter awakes, he feels blissfully warm. Softly calloused hands are carding through his hair, running down the back of his head to scratch gently at the nape of his neck and the muscle where it meets his shoulders. His mind is cloudy and slow, but he still manages to blink open his eyes and see Cas inches away, the two facing each other as they lie together on another familiarly hard motel bed. Cas’ eyes are huge and the blue of ice floating on a lake, his brow just slightly creased in concern as he continues his ministrations. Dean just lets himself enjoy them, instead of giving into his instinctive reaction when it comes to anything approaching tenderness. An onslaught of memories hit him, flashing him back to the car chase and crash, and suddenly he’s worried all over again. Dean opens his eyes and strains to sit up, but his body responds with another wave of agony and Cas pushes him gently back down. The hunter goes willingly, body spent of energy from just that one movement alone, but it does nothing to quench his concern.

“Cas, thank fuck. Are you okay? Did you get hurt during the crash? How are you feeling?” Dean demands hazily, his mind sharpening as his worry escalates. Cas chuckles weakly, offering Dean his signature barely-there smile.  
“I’m fine, Dean, apart from the sickness. You kept me from getting any injuries save for a few bruises, but in your efforts, you sustained quite a considerable number of wounds. You broke your left wrist, are mildly concussed, and incurred several lacerations that Sam had to stitch up. He used up all the morphine and suture thread, so he went to go get some more.” It takes a few seconds for this information to sink in, and then Dean nods his head too vigorously not to send him wincing and gritting his teeth in pain. His head is throbbing so ferociously it feels like it might explode. “Dean?” Cas questions, stroking the top of Dean’s hand.  
“M’ fine, Cas,” Dean grunts out, determined to make it a true statement. Cas is dubious, but wisely decides to let it go.

“I want to thank you, Dean... for taking such intensive care of me… and offering me your unswerving protection. You are such a selfless man, with such a glorious… astounding soul, and I feel a… a deep affection for you. I do not, however, understand why you’re always making sacrifices for me when you should be taking care of yourself. Do you not understand what it would do to me if you were t-to perish?” Cas sounds like he doesn’t have much energy, but is determined to use every last ounce of it to thank Dean. He gazes earnestly into the elder Winchester’s eyes, as if examining the hunter’s very soul itself. Dean wants to shrink back from the intimacy of it, of the moment, but a stronger part of him wants to prolong it and see where it takes him. Just this once.  
“‘Cuz, Cas. Just ‘cuz. I don’t want you getting hurt.” Dean swallowed loudly, his throat too dry as he struggles to put his feelings into words. “And maybe I like taking care of you too. It just feels…right. Especially with you so close to human.” Dean closes his eyes. The morphine must be working its way out of his system, because he’s beginning to feel the burning pull of the stitches in his flesh, and his broken wrist is aching something fierce. Hopefully Sam is out getting a cast for it too, or Dean is sure screw it up worse in no time.

“You are wonderful, Dean Winchester.” Cas moves his hand back to Dean’s hair. “You make my human emotions more than worth the strife they bring.” Dean’s heart swells in his chest at that, but it also triggers a warning in his brain. This is starting to line up with the other symptoms the curse is supposed to inflict….  
“I think the ‘spill your guts’ part of the curse is getting to you, buddy,” Dean remarks, patting Cas’ shoulder. Cas leans into the touch, and Dean finds himself drawing his hand across the nape of the angel’s neck to follow the ridge of his spine down his back, since Cas lying on his side is giving the hunter easy access. It feels too natural, and far too comforting to Dean. He shouldn’t get this much pleasure from making Cas feel good, right?  
“If your injuries would permit, I would like to squeeze you with my body. A hug, I mean. I would like to hug you, Dean,” Cas hums. Before Dean can decide how to respond, Sam unlocks the door and enters, his arms full of plastic grocery bags. He kicks it shut with his foot, then deposits the bags on the other motel bed. He turns to Cas and Dean, his eyes looking exhausted and stressed beyond belief.

“Guys, I really hate to say this, but we need to go back to that motel. We left the cure book.”


	9. Chicken Soup for the Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by my lovely Astrophilla <3

Dean’s jaw falls open and he stares incredulously at Sam, waiting for the punchline. “Sonovabitch! What is with our fucking luck today?” Dean growls, clenching his fists. Sam is already shrugging into his jacket, getting ready to head out. Dean makes an attempt to roll out of bed after him, but Cas stops him before he has the chance to do himself too much damage. He feels stitches tear at the base of his neck and staggers from the onslaught of pain. Cas clings tightly to Dean, as if he’s the one who needs reassurance and not Dean.  
“Dammit, Dean! Lay down! You’re not going anywhere,” Sam says, frowning in concern at Dean’s reluctant show of pain. Dean shakes his head, jaw still clenched and teeth gritted against the protest of his body.  
“No way in hell am I letting you go alone,” Dean grinds out, eyes flashing as he looks at his brother fiercely, feeling conflicted over the visceral instinct to protect Sam through back up and the overwhelming desire to stay with Cas.  
“Yes you are. You can’t even sit up, let alone help me break into a police office and steal the book back,” Sam argues.  
“Can’t sit up my ass! It was just a car crash, you know how many of those I’ve been in over the years?” Dean throws back. Sam rolls his eyes and bitchfaces.  
“Whatever, Dean, you’re not coming and you know it. Besides, we need you here to look after Cas. His symptoms are only getting worse,” Sam advises seriously, and Dean hunches his shoulders in defeat, knowing he can’t argue.

“Fine. But if you aren’t back in five hours I’m coming after you, you hear?” Dean says. Sam nods.  
“I know, I’ll be quick,” Sam promises, tucking his trusty pistol into the waistband of his jeans and smoothing his shirt down over the blocky lump in hopes of disguising it.  
“How do you think you’re gonna get there? Can’t just drive around a stolen cop car,” Dean reminds him.  
“Already took care of the cop car, it’s miles away. I bought a Honda in a roadside car sale.”  
“You used cash?” Dean’s voice is indignant and Sam gives him a hard look.  
“After what your dodgy credit card got us into? Yes, I definitely used cash. It was only thirty-five hundred,” Sam says, and Dean’s eyes bug out but he knows Sam made a wise choice.  
“What are we even going to do about my Baby?” Dean laments, forlorn.  
“We’ll figure something out. I gotta go. Call me if you need anything,” Sam says, grabbing the keys to their new car and slamming the door shut behind him. 

Dean releases a loud sigh, stressed, in pain, and upset. He sees Sam left a bottle of water and a container of Advil on the nightstand for him, and Cas helps him sit up enough to swallow back two pills, feeling them already start to burn a hole in his stomach lining, seeing as he can’t remember the last time he’s eaten. That makes him wonder… “Cas? How are you feeling?” Cas turns onto his side to peer at Dean through his eyelashes, and it hits Dean: even sick and nearly human as he is, Cas is beautiful. With those alluring crystalline eyes, the dark stubble along his jaw contrasting perfectly with his creamy complexion, his hair so fucked to hell with its dark curls doing in every direction, Dean is astounded by it. Would this be what it would be like to wake up next to Cas in the morning, to see those too-blue eyes gazing at him like he’s the only thing in the universe worth looking at? His hair all sexed up… Dean stops the daydream right there and clears his throat. 

“I’m not sure, my body feels strange. I desire so many human things right now, but it is hard to identify them… thirst is the most predominant, if my guess work is accurate,” Cas replies. Dean grins.  
“You’re hungry and thirsty, Cas. And lucky for you, I can satisfy those desires.” Only after the words are out does Dean realize how suggestive they were, but Cas doesn’t catch on, and Dean hadn’t intended it to sound sexual. For whatever reason, when Dean thinks of Cas, he doesn’t feel lust first. He feels something else, something deeper and more meaningful, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting Cas. Holy fuck, did he really just think that? Dean rips himself away from the train of thought, defaulting back to what he always does when dealing with nearly everything lives throws at him. The strategy of keeping his hands busy and doing something useful to keep his mind off of things makes him feel safe from his more dangerous thoughts. “I’m gonna make you some food, ‘kay? Then you can take some painkillers and you’ll feel a lot better, I promise,” Dean says, carefully propping himself up against the headboard of the bed. He’s a little anxious to feed the angel more pills, considering the last time he did so Cas threw up everything he ate. A wave of nausea rolls through him in sympathy, entangled with various pains aching and burning all over his battered body, but it just reminds him that it’s what Cas would’ve suffered through if he hadn’t been there to protect him. 

It makes it worth it. Over and over again.

“Don’t push yourself, Dean,” Cas says, his voice rough and gravelly. He slips one hand around the back of Dean’s neck to probe gently at the bandage covering the stitches torn loose there, and pulls his fingers back, frowning. “You’re bleeding,” Cas announces, eyes swimming with concern.  
“It’s nothing, Cas, don’t worry ‘bout it. You stay here, I’m going to go make you… some soup.” Dean declares, then slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and plants his bare feet against the floor, taking care to heave himself upright gingerly, so as not to aggravate his injuries further or give him another head rush. He notices belatedly Sam changed both of them out of their bloodied clothes, the hunter now wearing a pair of his track pants and a clean black t-shirt, while Cas is in another pair of Dean’s old, holey sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. A swell of possessive affection captivates the hunter before he can stop it, seeing Cas in his ill-fitting clothes again. Dean shakes his head, as if to dislodge the thoughts. 

Before pushing away from the bed he’s leaning on to support his weight, Dean covers Cas up with the blankets, tucking the edge up under his chin. Cas’ answering smile is endearingly huge. Dean walks slowly over to the other bed, where Sam left the bags of groceries, and starts to rifle through them with his good hand, leaving the broken one held awkwardly to his chest. He finds a wrist brace in the bag, struggling to get it out of its packaging with one hand, when Cas comes up behind him and his nimble fingers rip away the packaging. Dean watches as Cas gently but efficiently guides Dean’s hand into the brace, then tightens the velcro straps and secures it in place, snug and supported. “Thanks Cas, now go lay back down, you’re seriously in no condition to be trying to patch me up,” Dean says sternly, but he can’t help the fondness that creeps in. He helps Cas back over to the bed, easing him back down and getting him back underneath the covers, then in a move as visceral as flicking the safety off a gun, Dean kisses the top of Cas’ head before standing up straight and heading back over to the grocery bags.

Dean continues to rummage through the bags, cheeks flushed as he’s pulling everything out to set on the bed in a cluttered array. He tests out using the fingers on his hurt hand, and finds after a few seconds the tendons start to burn, so he gives up on using the appendage for now. He pulls out a bunch of Sam’s healthy organic rabbit food ingredients, finding carrots and a roasted chicken, celery, onion, and lettuce. “Looks like Sammy was gonna make himself a hippy-granola salad,” Dean jokes to himself. “Where’s the pie?” He pulls out a bag of egg noodles and then has an idea. Smiling widely, he scoops all the ingredients into his arms and carries them over to the tiny kitchenette unit in the corner of the room, dropping them on the counter and crouching down to peer in the cabinet for a pan. He finds a saucepan and crows in triumph, standing up and setting it on the ancient electric stove, and gets to work.

A quick glance over his shoulder shows him Cas has drifted off again, and Dean decides that’s a good thing -- the angel definitely needs his sleep. Satisfied with his assessment, Dean washes off one of his jack knives with lots of soap and hot water, then washes a few stalks of celery and a couple of carrots. He then gets to work stripping the roast chicken of its meat, creating a pile of shredded chicken breast until all that remains of the original chicken is a carcass. He dumps the whole thing into the saucepan, then fills it up with water and turns the heat up to boiling. While the broth simmers, he makes short work of cutting up the vegetables, finding himself oddly entertained with the challenge of using just one hand, his agility with a knife compensating for it. Cooking makes him feel calm and peaceful, in control of something when usually everything is going to hell. He strains the carcass out and throws it away, then dumps in the vegetables and shredded chicken, stirring it with the tip of his knife. Dean finds some salt and pepper on the table and pours some in, tasting it until it’s perfect. 

Dean drops some noodles in and lets them cook, meanwhile searching for two bowls and spoons. He turns the stove off and distributes the soup equally into the bowls, but has difficulties transporting the bowls over to the bed, trying to balance them and not spill scalding soup all over himself while trying not to upset any of his injuries. It’s a delicate procedure, but he’s proud of himself when he makes it to Cas’ bed with only two little spills on the floor. “Wakey wakey, eggs and… well, just soup. I made soup,” Dean says playfully, excited for Cas try it. Cas blinks his eyes open blearily and Dean stuffs a bunch of pillows against the headboard for them to lean up against. Cas sits up, and Dean sets a bowl of soup in his lap and slides a spoon into his hand. “Eat up! But be careful, it’s hot,” Dean declares, pushing a spoonful of the steaming broth into his mouth. It’s so hot it burns his mouth and throat, but he thinks it tastes good. 

Cas is staring at his bowl in confusion, then glances over at Dean dipping the spoon into his bowl and lifting it to his lips to blow at the steam. The elder Winchester swallows and then smiles at Cas, feeling warm. The angel is still fumbling with his spoon when Dean raises his own soup-filled utensil and holds it to the other man’s lips. He opens his mouth and Dean pushes the spoon in, watching as his chapped lips close around it. Dean slowly draws the spoon back out and brings another mouthful of soup to Cas’ lips. He hums contentedly, swallowing the hot liquid back, then smiles disarmingly at the green-eyed man. “These molecules… this soup you made… it’s very pleasant, Dean.” Cas purrs. Dean chuckles, proud of himself.  
“Think you can handle feeding yourself now?” the hunter asks. Cas nods, and something in him wishes he hadn’t asked and had instead just kept feeding him. Cas has no trouble wielding his spoon now, and does an even cleaner job transporting the soup into his mouth than the older Winchester does. He finishes all his soup and Dean hands over his own bowl, ecstatic the angel is eating so much. 

As soon as he finishes the remainder of the soup, Cas’ eyelids start to droop and he starts to list to the side, leaning against the hunter. With an indulgent smile, Dean sets their bowls aside and eases the angel down, favoring his own broken wrist and stitched up wounds while doing so. Cas unconsciously curls around Dean, snuggling up against the hunter and burying his face in Dean’s shoulder, where he has himself propped up on one elbow. In the quiet intimacy of the moment, Dean doesn’t need to maintain his typical couldn’t-care-less façade of denial, and he’s lying flat on his back and wrapping an arm around Cas’ waist to draw him closer. It feels good like this; like everything is how it should be. Like Castiel belongs right here, or some sappy shit like that Dean is beginning to accept he will always associate with the angel. Cas makes him emotional. So what? 

Cas’ fingers curl into Dean’s shirt as he nestled his face closer, settling into the warm embrace around him. The older Winchester tightens his arms and reaches his good hand up to comb through Cas’ hair, a gesture he’s learned is particularly effective in making the angel relax into sleep. He scratches at Cas’ scalp and in response, the angel completely melts into him. Dean finds himself smiling, affection warming him from his core out, and wonders if this is what it’s like to actually take more pleasure in giving it to another over seeking it yourself. With any sex he’s had in the past, he’s given as good as he’s got, but there was never any doubt that it was purely hedonistic. But, obviously with Cas meaning something -- so much -- to him, when all those one night stands meant nothing, it no longer applies. He feels weirdly more satisfied than he ever has when greedily seeking gratification just with this one moment of holding Cas close and bringing him comfort.

Dean isn’t sure how long he lies there, sifting his hands through Cas’ bed hair and occasionally humming Metallica. Cas is feverish against his skin, to the point where he’s not even sweating anymore, like his vessel has given up on trying to bring his temperature down. Dean tries to make him feel better anyways, pouring what’s left of the glass of water over a discarded shirt on the floor and smoothing it over Cas’ neck. The sleepy sigh of relief is reward in itself. The hunter knows he needs to stay awake and keep watch, so he very carefully pulls himself into a sitting position against the headboard and gathers Cas up against him, cradled against his chest. The soft rasp of Cas’ breath is hot over Dean’s cotton-clad clavicle, but he can feel the fast little beats of Castiel’s heart, and it’s all he needs. 

The sound of a key being jammed into the lock on the door breaks Dean out of his stupor, making him reflexively look up and pull Cas closer. Sam comes in, looking exhausted but uninjured, with the cure book tucked under his arm. “I got it. Trust me when I say I never want to get caught stealing evidence again.” Sam puts the book on the desk, and only then stops to take in Cas and Dean. Dean doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scoot away from Cas. He just keeps up his head scritching, gazing calmly back at his brother.  
“You’re okay? No injuries? Or cops on the way?” Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head with a tired smile.  
“Got out clean.” A long moment passes, and Sam stares at the two in silence. Dean’s getting riled up the longer Sam keeps him pinned there under his gaze, and starting to internally get pissed wondering if Sam is repulsed or disapproving or anything his brother might come up with in regards to the scene before him. Rage sparks in his chest, and he’s lashing out, nerves frayed from the tension mounting from trying to figure out what Sam is thinking.  
“What, do I have somethin’ on my face?” Dean snarls, voice saturated with sarcasm and hostility. Sam gives Dean a quizzical look, but it softens into something knowing and satisfied, despite how Dean is still fuming.  
“Dean,” Sam finally says in an odd voice, “I know what he means to you. Anyone who looks at the two of you and doesn’t see it must be blind.” There’s no heat in his words, no accusations, just easy understanding. Hell, he’s even smiling a little. Doesn’t stop Dean from going from one to five hundred on the pissed off o-meter. Sam has to be rubbing it in his face or something, why else would he say anything?

“Yeah, so what? What the fuck does it matter to you or anyone else how I feel? It’s none of your fucking business,” Dean snarls, but his voice is quiet so he doesn’t wake the angel sleeping entangled with him. Sam frowns, raising his eyebrows, and then that wide-eyed puppy dog look is back in his eyes. Dean feels a twinge in his gut and instantly feels bad, but makes no move to take the words back. He said what he needed to, and if Sam made some inference about Castiel and Dean, then who knows what he could be thinking about Dean and his feelings right now.  
“What the hell, Dean? It DOESN’T matter what anyone else thinks, when has it ever? I’m your brother, I know you care about what I think whether you’ll admit it or not,” Sam starts, and Dean opens his mouth to object, but Sam keeps going, not giving him a chance to get any other words in. “So you know how I feel about it? Really fucking happy. I love you both regardless of your decisions and have a lifetime of both your shitty choices to back me up. But seeing you two together -- actually HAPPY -- well, what more could I want? Hell, that’s all of my Christmases rolled into one. So quit being so damn angsty about it all the time. If it’s what you both want, go for it, and you know I’ll have your back a hundred percent.” Sam finishes. Dean’s stunned and falters over his previously composed rant, the words dying in his throat as he unclenches his fists. He stares at his brother incredulously before his lips slowly curl into a grateful smile. 

“Thanks, Sammy. You’re right,” Dean clears his throat against the emotion threatening to clog it. Sam dips his head in acknowledgement and grins, walking over to clasp Dean on the shoulder and offer him a smile.  
“Now what do you say we order some take out? From the state of the kitchen, looks like you guys ate my salad stuff.” Dean laughs.  
“Not something I ever thought I’d admit to,” and they both indulge in more laughter. While Sam digs around for his phone to order out, Dean mulls over Sam’s words, again impressed by the strength of their communication. The tacit fact makes the hunter feel scared as hell but also more than ready to finally admit it, at least to himself. 

Dean loves Castiel. He’d do anything for him, and will do whatever it takes to get him better, even if it’s the last thing he ever does.


	10. Fiction Versus Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by my lovely Astrophilla <3 <3

It doesn’t take long for the Winchesters’ luck to go completely to shit, the way it always inevitably does. Dean really doubted how long cuddly, fed Cas’ stable state would last. Paired with Sam’s compassionate understanding, it was all too good to be true; the hunter rarely gets a reprieve from travesty after travesty, so he’s only mildly surprised — though no less horrified and heartbroken — when Cas wakes with jolting, full body coughing fits. He’d been dreading this moment, when Cas’ serene, fitful state would come to a traumatic end, the sight of ill-concealed agony on Cas’ ashen face wrecking him.

“Cas!” Dean grinds out through his teeth. “Cas, just hold on, you’re gonna be just fine,” he promises as he rolls to his knees and braces the angel’s shoulders to the mattress with both hands, trying to ground him amid the panic he must be feeling at losing control of his vessel, if the wide, terrified eyes and desperate grabbing are anything to go by. Castiel’s gasping for breath in between hacking coughs tearing up straight from his very core, harsh and wet. His eyes are rolling blindly, searching for Dean, and the hunter cups the side of his face with a curved palm, trying to quell his panic long enough to comfort Cas. His eyes fall on the angel’s gaping mouth, the dark red glistening between his lips, and at the gurgling sound of each cough paired with the choking, Dean comes to an awful realization: Castiel is choking on his own blood. 

“Fuck! Sam!” Dean growls in desperation, a near-hysterical sense of fear and determination igniting the fire in his bones. “Cas, listen to me, it’s okay, it’s alright, I’m here,” Dean chants, but his voice cracks, betraying his emotions. Sam pushes Dean over just enough so that he can see Cas, and Dean has to fight back the instinct to shove his way back, to be closer to the angel.  
“He can’t breathe through the blood clogging his airways, get him into recovery position,” Sam orders, and the thinly-veiled anxiety in his voice tears at Dean’s fraying nerves as he jumps to comply. He positions his hands on Cas’ left hip and shoulder, then with bated breath, carefully rolls him onto his right side, tilting his jaw and head up at an angle. He’d done this for Sam once, when his brother had been on the Trials and puking up blood, and he felt just as useless now as he had then.  
“Come on, come on,” Dean begs, heart in his throat as Cas shudders again, bending in on himself as another convulsion of a cough wracks his body. The sound makes Dean wince as Cas chokes, until suddenly a thick spray of blood erupts from his mouth and splatters Sam and the bed with crimson. Shortly after, a thin stream of blood spills out of Cas’ mouth and down the side of his face and neck, seeping into the comforter his cheek rests on, and Dean lets out a heavy breath of short-lived relief.

“It’s okay, just get it out, I’ve got you,” he whispers in Cas’ ear as he holds the angel’s face in his hands, supporting the weight of his head as he expels another misty cloud of blood. The fits have escalated into faster, shorter coughs that seem much rougher, like his lungs are trying to clear out all the blood clogging them and his windpipe. Every muscle in the hunter’s body is pulled taut, jaw clenched as he’s forced to watch helplessly as Cas’ seizure-like hacking gradually subsides. It feels like an eternity before the angel falls limp, trembling in Dean’s arms as he spits out a final wad of blood, and when the quietest whimper passes through his blood-slick lips, Dean’s heart nearly breaks in two.

“Oh, Cas. Buddy. C’mere,” Dean whispers, gently pulling the dying angel to his chest and cradling him there. Cas rests his cheek on Dean’s shoulder and the older Winchester can feel his hot breath rasping from his abused throat and ghosting over his neck. His grip on Castiel is unfaltering, with one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers curled into his hair, and the other arm wrapped bruisingly tight around his waist. “You’re okay.” Dean promises, pulling Cas back from him just enough to see his face. Cas’ eyes are watery and agonized, fear visible in the dilation of his pupils. Dean brushes the back of his hand over Cas’ lips, attempting to wipe away the blood smeared across them. 

“Can you breathe okay now?” he asks softly, getting on his knees but not daring to remove his arm from around Cas.  
“I...” Castiel rasps with a dazed nod, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again rapidly. Dean is again struck by just how frail and weak this formerly mighty, revered Angel of the Lord is now. It’s written all over him, in the stark paleness of his skin and its sharp contrast with the dark blood splattered all over his face, the thick scruff covering his jaw, his unnaturally bright, vividly blue eyes. His cheeks are almost hollow, skin stretched too tight over bones the hunter swears grow more prominent every day, but through it all Dean sees just how ethereally beautiful he is, even so very human as he is now. Seeing the angel so human in all his brokenness breaks his heart and fills him with a deep, bitter ache. He goes to ease Cas back down onto the mattress, then glimpses the blood everywhere — on Sam, on Cas, on himself, on the comforter, on the sheets — and with a grimace, changes his mind.  
“Alright, sweetheart, we’d better clean you up—” Dean starts, now that his brain has finally rebooted and he’s able to think logically, only to be distracted by the endearment slipping all too easily through his lips. He freezes, casting a nervous glance at Sam, but his brother doesn’t react and the world hasn’t imploded, so he brushes away the concern. With a shake of his head, he reaches for Cas’ bloodied shirt.

“Do you wanna take off your shirt, or do you want me to take care of it?” Dean asks, looking up from where his hands have latched onto the hem of Cas’ borrowed shirt to gaze into his eyes. Castiel’s looking at him, but there’s something uncanny about the stare, as if he’s not actually seeing him. His eyes aren’t really focused on the older Winchester, and the glazed look makes Dean instantly apprehensive. “Cas?” he repeats, shifting closer with a frown. He reaches a hand up, about to snap his fingers in front of Cas’ face in hopes of breaking him from his stupor, when Cas flinches back from his touch, startling Dean with the quickness of the movement.  
“Get away,” Cas whimpers, unfocused eyes darting around him, now flashing with panic and fear. “I want Dean. Where is Dean? What did you do with him?” The fear in his voice morphs into distress, and Dean’s frown deepens, brow furrowing in confusion.  
“Cas, it’s me, buddy. I’m Dean,” he says gently, not making any move to try and touch Cas again, afraid of spooking him. “I’m right here, I’m not leaving you.” 

If Castiel hears Dean, he gives no indication of it. He backs up closer to the headboard, curling in on himself, like a wounded animal. “Cas.” Dean tries again, his heart pounding harder.  
“Need Dean, need to protect him from you,” Cas murmurs, eyes twitching and narrowing as his attention snaps onto something over Dean’s shoulder. Dean glances over at where Cas is looking, but nothing is there. Sam throws him a worried, helpless look, but before either of them can react, Cas is sitting bolt upright, face screwed in vigilant hostility.  
“Naomi,” he growls, his voice sounding like he’s been gargling gravel for the past hour, and Dean’s eyes widen as he watches.  
“Cas-” he says warily, but the angel plants one palm flat over Dean’s sternum and shoves him down on the bed behind him, his newfound strength startling Dean, when he could hardly keep himself upright just minutes before.  
“Stay away from us. Stay away from Dean. You will not hurt him,” Cas swears, voice laced with venom. His eyes are fixed on a point at the end of the bed, and Dean turns to eye the same spot.

Absolutely nothing is there — definitely no Naomi to be seen, considering the bitch had died at Metatron’s hand. Taken aback, Dean props himself up on his elbows, blinking bemusedly from Cas to Sam, and to the invisible entity Cas is all but growling at. The muscles in his back are rigid and he’s holding himself over Dean, and the fact that Cas, even in his current state, values Dean’s safety above his own hits Dean like a bullet. “If you ever try to touch Dean again, I will personally rip your wings from your back,” Castiel snarls, his voice booming and strong, stunning Dean.  
“Cas,” Dean tries again, his words rushing into each other as he struggles to get them out, “Naomi’s dead, remember? Metatron killed her, she can’t hurt you—” He’s cut short once more, speechless, when Cas lunges to the end of the bed. His right hand curls in the air, as if he’s holding a blade that isn’t there, and then he’s slamming his arm down into nothing, stabbing a nonexistent threat.

“Metatron! Get away from him!” Castiel yells hoarsely, throwing himself off the bed and onto his feet as Dean gapes, swinging his arm forward into another attack. His body is too fragile, far too weak for the deft jabs, and his knees buckle, legs giving out and he drops onto to the ground. “Dean! Run!” Cas orders, twisting on his back and again thrusting his imaginary blade-wielding hand forward.  
“Cas,” Dean implores, rolling off the bed and gingerly approaching the angel. “No one is there. It’s all in your head.” The hunter lays a tentative hand on Cas’ shoulder and watches, mouth dry, as the angel crumples. Like a drowning man, he turns and wraps his arms around Dean’s legs, clinging to the only part he can reach. He buries his face against Dean’s knees, a desperate sob tearing up his already battered-sounding throat, and for a moment, Dean forgets to breathe. “Hey, hey,” he croons, running a hand through Cas’ hair before bending over to scoop him up, bundling him against his chest. “You’re okay,” he repeats as he deposits Cas onto the bed, not removing his hands since they seem to anchor the frantic, angel against his hallucinations, seeing as he calms only when he feels Dean’s touch.

“I’m gonna go translate the rest of the cure,” Sam announces, wisely keeping his voice quiet. Dean nods and waves him off, all attention focused on Cas. He’s glad that Sam’s trying to do what he can to help, of course he is — it’s only going to get worse until they work out the cure, but right now Cas is all he can focus on. He swallows back the lump in his throat as he surveys the angel, trying desperately not to dwell on the fact they only have one ingredient out of who knows how many, and that Cas is already hallucinating and coughing up so much blood he can’t fucking breathe. Time is running out and everything is going to shit. Cas’ violent trembling against him, paired with muffled sobs, brings him back out of his thoughts like a punch to the face. Sam is gone, the potion and cure book missing as well, leaving the older Winchester with his broken angel.

Dean’s heart is breaking into smaller and smaller pieces the longer Cas cries, and before he realizes it, he’s rocking the fragile body in his arms, hushing Cas like a child. He’s never seen the angel like that, never witnessed him in such a complete and utterly broken state. His own eyes are watering as he runs a hand through Castiel’s hair and down over his back, trying to provide some comfort as he sobs into the hunter’s side. Dean curls himself around Cas, as if he somehow his body will block out all the bad, but there’s nothing he can do about the poison ravaging his body from the inside out, faster and faster until soon there will be nothing left. Dean halts the train of thought firmly in place; he will not let it get that far. They’re going to cure Cas and everything will be fine. Dean swears it.

“Buddy, look at me,” Dean whispers, tightening his arms around Cas. The angel blinks up at him, eyes red and bloodshot, watery trails glistening over his cheeks, and Dean nearly breaks. “It’s going to be okay, I swear. You’re safe, I’m safe, Sam is safe, and neither Naomi nor Metatron will ever be able to hurt us again,” he promises tearily, squeezing Cas in his arms as the angel looks up at him, lips red and puffy, eyes swollen.  
“Dean,” Cas starts, drawing in a shaky breath, “when I was searching the Pit, it—” His body contorts as a grating cough breaks through him, and Dean tries to hush him, but the angel carries on with pained determination. “It took me... seconds to identify yours. Of billions. How?” Dean squints down at him in confusion, Cas’ glossy eyes wide and earnest as they search his for an answer.  
“Uh, because I was the baddest sonovabitch down there?” Dean weakly tries to joke, and Cas chokes out a small chuckle, eyes slipping closed as he rasps for breath.  
“Out of every soul... yours was the brightest.” Dean balks instinctively at the words, but Cas perseveres, weak fingers threading through his own. “Radiated such devotion, nobility — such an immense amount of love for those it shone brightest for.”

Dean is speechless, floored by the reverence in Cas’ words, at how affectionate he is discussing the topic of Dean’s soul. The way Cas describes it, the light in his eyes… it makes Dean feel, for the first time in a hell of a long time, that maybe his soul isn’t the complete piece of shit he expected. “The moment I saw it,” Cas continues, lifting a shaking hand to cup Dean’s face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone in a move that tugged at Dean’s chest, “knew I’d never be able to break the bond forged between us. It only grew, solidified and deepened until it was th’most treasured thing in my care... most beautiful, glorious thing I’d ever had the privilege to cradle within my Grace. ‘F only you could see how truly magnificent, how dear you are to me, Dean.” Cas closes his eyes for a long moment while Dean tries to blink away the tears threatening to spill over. “The best way I can conceptualize it, vocalize my feelings in a way you’ll grasp... I love you. Have loved you for so long, more than you’ll ever know,” Cas finishes, throwing Dean a relieved smile with watery eyes, lips cracked and dry, still streaked with blood at the corners. Dean swears he’s never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, throat tight with the effort of holding back tears. His heart is pounding wildly against his ribs, like it’s trying to break free, and his cheeks burn with poorly concealed emotion. “I love you too, Cas. Fuck, I love you,” Dean manages to push past his quivering lips, and then tears are spilling over his water line as he ducks his head and instinctively presses his lips to Cas’. The angel parts his lips under Dean’s, encouraging him, but the bliss of the moment is shattered when Dean’s tongue brushes the seam of his swollen lips, and Cas’ sharp intake of breath triggers a violent cough. Dean pulls back, cheeks flaming red, guilt rushing through him. “God, I’m so sorry. You’re sick, that was stupid of me—”  
“No, do not apologize,” Cas finally gasps out after the coughs have subsided, “I’m sorry, I spoilt it.” Dean blinks at the ears budding in the angel’s eyes, though whether from the force of the coughing fit, or from their aborted kiss, he doesn’t know.  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cas, you didn’t ruin it,” Dean hushes him, brushing the tears from his cheeks. “We’ve got plenty of time to try again as soon as you’re all better, don’t worry.” With a smile, he takes Cas’ hand in his own, kissing the angel’s knuckles. Cas returns the watery smiles, eyes warming, and presses chapped lips to Dean’s cheek, making the hunter flush even deeper.

The night passes slowly, with Dean anxiously watching over the angel, waiting for the next bout of bloody coughs to start. Each time it inevitably does, Dean, calmly as possible, carries Cas to the bathroom and bears his weight with one arm around his waist while Cas clears his throat of blood into the sink. With a heavy sense of foreboding, Dean uses a wet wash rag and gently cleans the blood off Cas’ face, returning them to the only clean bed, where they cling to each other like limpets. Dean’s not only becoming comfortable with this level of intimacy, the cuddling and closeness, he’s now craving it, taking as much refuge in it as Cas. With a smile he learns the perfect way in which his knee fits in the crook of Cas’, memorizes the labored rasp of breath across his skin, the scent of the cherry cough drops he’s been sucking on to soothe his throat. Such small details are so important to the hunter, especially when the cruel, gnawing voice in the back of his head won’t let him forget that he might never get to revel in them again. From the scrape of stubble over stubble to the brush of Cas’ eyelashes on his neck when the angel buries his face against Dean’s throat -- the hunter is intoxicated.

Just after six in the morning Dean is drowsy but awake, still dutifully watching a fitfully sleeping Cas, when a few light taps on the door startle him into alertness. “Dean?” Sam calls through.  
“It’s unlocked,” Dean calls back, just loud enough so his brother will hear but not enough to wake Cas, who seems to either sleep like the dead or not at all. Sam enters the room and Dean lets out a low whistle; he looks possibly even worse than he did through the Trials, and it’s no doubt all from sleep deprivation. The bags under his eyes are a deep purple, his hair is fucked to hell, and his skin is sallow pale. “Did you get any sleep last night?” Dean asks, scolding. Sam collapses into the armchair across from their bed, scrubbing viciously at his eyes with the heels of his palms before replying.  
“No. But I did decode the entire cure minus the activating last ingredient, which I can figure out once we have everything else,” Sam announces with a hopeful, but absolutely exhausted smile. He removes a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and begins to read. “Essence of flesh and bone, which we already have, a lamb’s skull to drink the concoction out of, the blood of the innocent, ground thyme, shapeshifter’s hair, and our mystery ingredient.” 

“That’s not too bad,” Dean remarks, nodding to himself. “They could be worse, I guess. We don’t really have the time to mail order crazy shit from Timbuktu right now.” Sam rolls his eyes and yawns.  
“Shows how messed up we are that those don’t flag up as particularly ‘crazy shit’. How ‘bout I get some sleep and stay here with Cas in case he wakes up, while you run out and get everything?” Sam proposes. Dean chews at the inside of his cheek, contemplative.  
His gut instinct is to immediately say no way, he’s not letting Cas out of his sight, but logic wins out — Sam looks like he’s about to drop dead from sheer sleep deprivation; he’s in no shape to run over all creation in search of obscure ingredients. Not only that, but Dean knows he can trust Sam to take care of the angel while he’s gone; out of the two of them, Sam’s the one with more extensive medical knowledge, anyways. Still, Dean can’t rationalize it to the aggressive, tenacious part of himself that rejects any idea of leaving defenseless, nearly-human Cas, even if Sam is there to watch out for him. 

Dean plows a hand through his hair, nerves on end. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave now. But you call me if anything at all happens, alright? I mean anything.” Dean shrugs into his jacket, movements jerky and fast, then yanks on a pair of jeans, already scanning the room for his wallet. He’s jamming his feet into his boots when Sam hands him the keys to Baby, which he pockets with his wallet and phone.  
“Don’t worry, Dean. I’ll call you if anything happens, and you know I’m a light sleeper. If he needs something, I’ll be right here.” Sam consoles him, and the calm, confident look on his face and reassuring sound of his voice makes Dean feel a little better, though the uncomfortable clench of his gut at the prospect of leaving Cas sets his teeth on edge. It only grows worse as he casts a final glance over at the unconscious angel, who looks so fucking small and broken that there’s not a single piece of Dean that wants to walk out that door. 

But Dean will do whatever it takes to save Castiel, so that’s exactly what he does, heart in his throat as he shuts the door behind him.


	11. Lessons Never Learned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Astrophilla <3 She's sick and dying, and deserves all the love <3

Dean, as a general habit, tends to drive over the speed limit. It always helps them get to where they’ve gotta go next faster, but he won’t deny enjoying the exhilarating rush that comes from cruising over nearly vacant highway. It’s both liberating and satisfying, reminds him he’s the one in control. On some of the more rural highways, he really tries to push it, but Sam doesn’t usually let him go ten over without throwing him a bitchface or complaint. But his law abiding brother isn’t here right now, so Dean’s speeding like the world’s ending tomorrow and he’s still got a shit load of places to go. This time it’s not for fun, he’s gunning it like a NASCAR driver because Cas is on his damn deathbed and Dean is his last chance. 

He can’t lose him now. Not when they’ve both finally admitted their feelings. Not a chance. 

The thought has Dean’s foot burying the gas, the Civic’s engine a whining that seems to protest the hunter coaxing it faster and faster yet. It’s so different from the sounds Baby makes, and a flash of anger tears through him when he thinks of his beloved car totaled wherever the fuck it is they must’ve towed her off to. As soon as Cas is better, he’s coming back for the Impala, and will fix her right up. Then they can ditch this trash car, which is annoyingly quiet and very unfamiliar. His gaze is steely as he glares out through the windshield, both hands tight around the wheel as he focuses on taking deep, steady breaths to ward off the overwhelming anxiety looming over him. All he can think of is Cas. His mind is torturing him with a constant loop of rewatching Cas throw up so much blood, seeing it spill from his lips like a faucet turned to full, driven to physical and mental anguish by the curse. Dean’s heart is in shreds and his stomach in knots as he tries to shake off the awful images. With a deliberate glance at the crumpled post-it note sitting on the bench seat beside him, he reads the first ingredient and wonders how the fuck he’s going to find any of this crazy shit, especially on a time limit. 

“Gonna have to slaughter a fucking lamb,” Dean sighs to himself, raking a hand wearily through his hair. So he’s on his way to the nearest farm, Sam having given him quick directions from Google Maps before he left. He’s got to be almost there, considering the road for miles is surrounded by endless fields of crops. Raspberries, probably, or whatever is resilient enough to withstand the shit weather. The sky is a daunting monotone gray, ominous clouds building up behind him, swollen with rain. The wind blows hard outside, so hard he can feel it push against the Civic, the windows creaking. It’s all pretty dreary and depressing, tension mounting like electricity thick in the air with the building storm, and he can only think of how fucking fitting it is. 

The towering crops drop away into pastures, and little white specks become visible in the distance when Dean comes to a stop at a fork in the road. “Yahtzee,” the hunter mumbles, steering the Civic in that direction. He makes it there in no time, pulling over to the gravelly side of the road and stepping out, depositing the keys into his back pocket after locking the door. Since he doesn’t have the Impala since it’s in no condition to drive after the crash, he’s going to have to do the job by hand, especially since a gunshot might draw unwanted attention. The herds of sheep and far-distant farm house, coupled with the menacing weather are all sure signs that he might as well pocket his fake ID; it’s not like anyone is going to see him to come questioning. There’s no one out there, and he hasn’t seen a single car for a solid half hour at least. 

Dean swiftly jumps the fence, taking care not use the hand with the broken wrist, and starts to awkwardly walk through the throngs of meandering sheep in search of a lamb. His boots are squelching in the mud, nearly coming off his feet when they get stuck and he lifts his foot, and he comes pretty close to slipping and falling on his ass in the sludge several times. None of this matters though; the hunter’s hell bent on finding a lamb as fast as possible, so he’ll be one ingredient closer to saving the angel he loves. Even thinking the L-word sends a thrill through his bones, making his stomach feel light and funny and his heart beat a little faster in his chest. The reaction is dampened as soon as he’s reminded of the dire circumstances and how much Cas needs him right now. Dean wishes he knew that Cas was doing okay. He feels so damn on edge, having no idea whether he is wrapped up cozily in the motel bed asleep, or bent over the toilet, puking up more blood. 

He’s so riled up as he stomps through the field that he almost misses the tiny animal standing between two black sheep, nibbling at a patch of grass. Dean makes sure to approach it gingerly, not wanting to scare it off, so of course, it’s with his ever-shitty luck that his phone chooses that exact moment to go off in his pocket, his Metallica ringtone blaring and startling the sheep. The look up with their blank eyes at him, and he makes no movements, staring back and hoping they don’t run or he’s going to have sprint after the thing. The lamb obliviously lowers its head back down to continue nosing at the grass, and Dean breathes a shaky sigh of relief before whipping his phone out of his pocket and answering the call. “Sam? How’s Cas?”   
“Hey, Cas is sleeping still, hasn’t woken up yet. I just wanted to tell you I just figured out--” Dean groans at that, shaking his head.  
“You’re supposed to be getting some damn sleep, Sammy, not ‘figuring’ shit out!” Dean scolds. Sam releases an exasperated sigh, and the older hunter can picture him making an exhausted bitchface before continuing.   
“Yeah, yeah. I just wanted to tell you that you can kill two birds with one stone if you use the lamb you kill not just for its skull but for its blood too. Because ‘blood of the innocent’, right? What’s more innocent than a lamb? It’s perfect.”

Dean feels his lips curling into a grateful smile. “Awesome, thanks Sam. Now go the fuck to sleep or so help me--”  
“Alright, bye,” Sam yawns across the line. “Good luck.” Dean hangs up, stuffs his phone back into his jeans, and starts wondering exactly how he’s going to go about this. The most effective way to reduce bloodshed would be to break its neck, fast and clean. Dean crouches beside the lamb, feeling a pang in his heart when the creature doesn’t even move away from him, all doe-eyed and vulnerable. ‘Just don’t think about it’, he commands himself. This is for Cas, and if it’s all he has to do to get two ingredients on the list, then he’s happy. Bonus that it’s not so damn difficult, nor involves being thrown through a wall or some of the shit they’re used to.

Dean reaches out and runs a hand over its back, petting it gently, feeling the wool is damp from the rain and mud. Dean strokes it’s velvety ears, then eases his hand down over its neck, slowly wrapping his fingers around its throat so as not to alarm it. He adjusts the angle of his hand, then adds another at the back of its skull, positioning his hands so one is at the base of its neck and the other holding its head. The hunter inhales through his nose, and on his exhale, he swiftly twists the lamb’s head to the side with calculated strength, fast and brief as possible. Dean both hears and feels the bone snap, and just like that, the lamb is crumpling to the ground in a heap. He catches it before it becomes saturated in mud, then awkwardly holds it against his chest. 

The trek back to the Civic is made quickly, Dean jogging vigilantly, the steady cadence of his breathing interrupted once by the low rumble of thunder overhead. Once back, he pulls a garbage bag out of the trunk and carefully wraps the lamb in it. He tucks it away, feeling vaguely guilty and mildly disturbed for a second as he shuts the trunk knowing a dead lamb is his precious cargo. He shoves the thought away as he slides in behind the wheel, jams the keys into the ignition and twists until the engine jumps to life. He barely smiles when something like relief dawns on him, knowing he’s making progress with the cure and overall with saving Cas’ life. The hunter backs out and keeps his foot heavy on the gas as he tries to get back into town, where he can go to the nearest grocery store and grab the next ingredient: ground thyme. That’s remarkably easy, which is nice reprieve for the moment. Not to mention he’s making considerable time; only two hours have passed and he already has two out of the four ingredients he set out to get. The thyme will be a breeze, so that leaves shapeshifter’s hair as the real challenge. How in the hell is he supposed to get that?

It’s not like he has the time or resources to hunt one down or find a way to lure one out, so he’s going to have to find a faster alternative. His chest seems to constrict with stress as he dwells on his options, none of which are promising. He could always summon a demon to get some for him; but there’s never been a single time that bargaining with demons has worked out for him. It’s always ended with him, if not Sam too, fucked over in the end, and if there was ever a wrong time to be fucked over, it’s now. A sign alerts the hunter he’s back within city limits, already beginning to pass various shops, houses and restaurants, breaking him from his stupor. One step at a time; he’s got to take this one step at a time or he’s not going to get anything done between the worrying about Cas and how the hell he’s getting the shapeshifter’s hair. A local grocery store comes up on his right up ahead and he drives into the parking lot, finding a vacant space near the front of the store since the terrible weather rendered most of the lot empty. 

He makes a run for it through the rain, and once inside the store he paces the entries of each aisle, reading the overhead signs in search of the spices. There’s never been a time in his life where he’s had to purchase spices, and the concept is so ridiculous he wants to laugh. He thinks aisle nine, labeled ‘Condiments’ is as good a place to start as any, so that’s where he heads, feeling immensely out of place among the few men and women with carts, some with children, some couples, but not a single person looking like him. They don’t pay him any mind, for which he’s grateful. He scans the shelves, looking past the various salad dressings and dips until he finally gets to the surprisingly vast assortment of spices lining the shelves. He idly wonders how there could be so many, and is more than a little dumbfounded at the seeming hundreds of containers. He’s about to start his search when his phone goes off again, loud and insistent, naturally sending a spike of anxiety straight through his heart. 

He pulls it out, catching a glimpse of Sam’s name on the screen, and presses ‘accept’ as he holds it up to his ear. He doesn’t even get a word in before Sam is speaking, breathless and desperate. “Dean, Cas is getting really bad. Have you got everything yet?” Sam asks, and the fear in his voice drains Dean’s face of color, makes his heart come to a shuddering stop in his chest before picking up double time. If his fingers weren’t curled so tightly around the phone, he’s sure he would’ve dropped it. “Fuck, how bad is he? What’s going on, what’s wrong?” Dean demands, something icy cold pumping vigorously through his veins. His entire world has narrowed to Sam’s voice on the end of the line as he waits.   
“He’s completely delusional, and he won’t stop throwing up blood, oh God, there’s so much blood. He keeps crying for you and I just can’t calm him down. Tell me you’re almost done,” Sam pleads, and Dean can hear him take a deep, stuttering breath. “Because I don’t think he’s got long left.” The words are like a knife to Dean’s gut, twisting and slicing through his vocal cords so he can’t speak. “Dean? Dean, are you there?” Comes Sam’s voice, and in the background the older hunter can hear a hacking, wet cough.   
Cas needs him, Sam needs him, he can’t afford to lose his shit now. “Tell Cas it’ll all be okay, Sam, that I’ll be back real soon,” he states with stony resolve. “I’m going to get the last ingredient now.”   
“But Dean--” Sam starts, but Dean hangs up, turning his phone off and returning it to his pocket. Everything feels wrong, sped up but somehow he’s still stuck moving far too slow. His thoughts are on fire, his pulse is racing, each desperate worry fired off in his head, but somehow he still feels his face is straight, eyes cold as they traverse the shelves before him in search of thyme. Cas is hurting, dying, and Dean isn’t there with him. He feels like he may snap from the sheer need he feels to be right there with the angel at this exact moment, but he doesn’t. Instead he reaches for a small, clear glass container of ground thyme leaves, then on second thought grabs four more of them and has to force his leaden body to move, his stiff legs to carry him to the check out line. 

Nothing feels real but the desperation, panic, and hysteria inside of Dean. The people moving in the line are a blur, the bills he hands the cashier not registering in his mind. He takes his thyme and leaves without looking back, hardly seeing people pass around him. He doesn’t feel the sharp, icy sting of rain on his skin as he passes through the doors and into the parking lot, doesn’t hear the squeak of his boots as he climbs into the Civic. He automatically starts the engine as if on autopilot. He reaches into his pocket for his phone absently, but instead of his phone, his fingers close around one of his many fake ID badges, this one for the FBI. It’s his unsmiling mug pasted to it, staring solemnly back at him that snaps him out of his trance.

“Guess I’m just gonna have to fuck myself over one more goddamn time,” Dean growls, hand clenching around the badge. He flings it down onto the passenger seat and grips the steering wheel, pulling out of the parking lot so fast he nearly rear ends another parked car. He’s got to summon a demon, and he’s going to do it right fucking now before anything gets worse. Damn him for having all of the necessary elements for the summoning on hand in the duffle he brought with him. All he needs now is to find the nearest cross road and speed dial the sonovabitch. The hunter drives like a maniac, weaving through traffic, receiving many annoyed honks in return, but with each car he skirts, all he can see behind his eyes is Cas’ blood-smeared face pressed against his chest, those too blue eyes looking up at him like he’s the purest form of salvation. “Fuck!” Dean roars, slamming a hand onto the dash so hard he feels something in his already damaged wrist snap. No time to regret taking the brace off now. 

The wheels squeal when they find traction on the rain-slick pavement as he buries the gas while flying around a corner. Rain is battering the car outside now and he can hear the distant crack of thunder splitting the sky. Torrents of the water stream down the windshield, and the older Winchester has the wipers on high, the angry whipping back and forth fitting his violent panic. He’s back racing through the farmlands again, out in the middle of fucking nowhere with just the rain, cows, and his seething desperation clawing through him and coloring his vision red. Both hands are clenched tight around the steering wheel, knuckles bone white, straining whatever bone he broke in his wrist, but Dean feels none of it. Two roads cross paths just up ahead and Dean slams on the brakes right in the middle of them, throwing the door open and out of his way as he climbs out and grabs his duffle bag from the back. He rips the zipper off impatiently as he paws through its contents, pulling out each of the items needed for the summoning. 

He spray paints a huge devil’s trap spanning a good portion of all four roads, which means if the demon wants to appear close enough to find him, it’s going to be trapped. Once that’s finished, he grabs the box and fills it with the ritual’s requirements, lastly setting his FBI ID on the very top before snapping the lid shut and dropping to his knees. Dean digs a hole at the center of the devil’s trap, sets the box in it, then flattens his palms to smooth the dirt over it. Blood is pounding through his veins so hard he sees spots at the corners of his vision as he raises himself to his feet and stands, squaring his shoulders and grinding his teeth together while he jogs outside of the devil’s trap to wait. “Show your face, you sonovabitch!” he yells, eyes flicking back and forth as he waits for the creature of Hell to appear. 

“You rang?” A soft voice asks, and he spins on his heels a full one-eighty, coming face to face with the demon. She’s hot, of course, with a tight, curvy little body sheathed in a form fitting red dress, thick locks of brown hair cascading down over her shoulders. Somehow this only pisses Dean off more. “What can I do for you, Dean?” She purrs, her full, unnaturally red lips contorting into a malicious smile.   
“Look around you, you’re trapped, which makes you my bitch,” Dean shouts so she can hear over the distance he’s standing from her. Her smile slips as she surveys the red spray paint lines. Her eyes flash black as she looks back to him, an accusatory glare on her face.   
“You Winchesters do have quite the reputation, I should’ve known,” she shrugs blithely, looking at Dean as if he’s a bug that has landed on her plate. “But I do enjoy a little fun, don’t we all? So I took the risk. Come on, Dean, what is you want? Make it really good, because I didn’t go to all this work to meet you here just to settle for anything.” She gives him a sultry wink and his blood boils in his veins. 

“I want shapeshifter’s hair and I want it now, you understand me? I’ll release you on the terms that you return with legitimate shifter hair. You do a runner, I summon you back and kill you. You bring me a fake, I drag your ass right back and stick my blade in your chest. Are we clear?” He demands, stepping closer so his toes are right at the spray painted line.   
“Crystal.” She gives him a blinding, wicked smile and he wants nothing more than to drown her in holy water until her lips burn too much for her to keep up that sadistic grin. “All I want to know is,” she ponders, pretending to examine her nails, “what could you possibly want it for?” Her voice is light and mocking, a smirk on her face as she looks Dean up and down. Wrath surges through him -- he doesn’t have time for this and certainly doesn’t owe her any damn explanation. “Oh wait! I’m getting something…” she trails off, tapping her temple with a devilish, playful grin. Dean’s stomach churns and fire spreads through his chest. “The angel, Castiel,” she spits his name like it’s poison in her mouth, “is dying, and you’re using some good old fashioned black magick witch cure to save him?” She throws back her head and laughs indulgently. “Oh, this is so great,” she muses, cackling again, and it takes all Dean’s restraint not to throttle her. “Tragic love stories are my favorite. Sure thing, Winchester, let me go and I’ll be right back with your shifter hair so you can save your precious angel.” She giggles, her eyes sliding back to Dean’s. 

“You bullshit me, you die. Don’t forget it, bitch!” he growls, then scuffs the toe of his boot through the line, breaking the trap. The demon instantly disappears, and before Dean can go over the broken line with the spray paint, she’s already back and standing just a few feet away from him, one palm cupping a long, curly lock of black hair.“Here it is, the real deal.” She holds it out to Dean and he gives her a dubious glance, reaching out to take it before she clamps her hand shut and draws it out of his reach. “Not yet, Dean, you gotta have patience. Not like you have anywhere important to be,” she laughs darkly, deeply amused with herself, and Dean’s hands bunch into fists as he channels every ounce of self restraint into not attacking her. “I’m only going to charge your soul for it too, since I’m such a saint. I’ll even let you live long enough to get in your little car and drive all the way back to the motel you’re staying at with your brother and angel lover, because I want to see the look on your face when you see that he’s already dead.”

Dean glares at her, not for one second believing she’s telling the truth. She raises an eyebrow at Dean’s lack of reaction, her eyes going serious. “Don’t believe me? Okay, when’s the last time you called back to check on him, thirty minutes ago, an hour? Hemoptysis goes wrong fast you know, your brother’s been desperately trying to call you.” Dean is already taking his phone out, knowing she has to be bullshitting him, but wanting to check nonetheless. He turns it on, and the screen lights up with missed call after missed call, every single one from Sam. The hunter’s stomach drops into his heels and his skin goes cold. No… “Doubtful yet?” Her voice is back to taunting and cheerful. She snaps her fingers and Dean’s phone is suddenly gone before he can call Sam back.   
“You fucking whore,” he growls, eyes narrowing. “Give me the damn hair and I might still let your scumbag ass walk away.”  
“I could give it to you, but really, what’s the point? Castiel is dead. He died a little under twenty minutes ago. Do you understand me, Dean? You failed.” Her words turn into a venom-laced sneer, each word sharp and cutting deep. “Really, you shouldn’t be surprised, I know I’m not. That is the Winchester way after all, failing those you care about most. You were foolish to think you ever had a chance to save him. He was dumb enough to join your misfit bunch, of course he’d die at your hand. Because you know how it goes; the story is always the same with you boys, it’s almost cliche. Everything you love dies, and it’s always your fault.”


	12. At the End of the Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter is especially disturbing and graphic.
> 
> Beta'd by Astrophilla <3

Dean sees red. He can hardly hear the demon through the blood rushing in his ears, can barely make out her smug, heavily made-up face through the veil of crimson obscuring his vision. His heart feels like it might burst his ribs with its violent rhythm, but he can’t find it in himself to think straight enough to care. The universe has narrowed down to one thought: Cas can’t be dead. Something visceral and deep in Dean’s core refuses to believe the evidence right in front of him, refuses to believe that the angel is no longer breathing, heart no longer beating, Grace confined to the illness’ boundaries. The hunter looks the demon straight in her brown eyes, so deceivingly human, and very slowly, so as not to draw any attention to the movement, drops his arms to his sides. The demon seems to have got her fill of sadistic pleasure from Dean’s reaction, because she continues with a grin. “Like I said, I’m not walking away without your soul, but I still plan on seeing the stoic Dean Winchester break down when he sees for himself that his little rebel angel has kicked the bucket. So pucker up, Winchester,” she giggles, voice sultry, eyes hooded with exaggerated lust. 

Dean’s mind is racing a mile a minute as she leans in, hand still clenched around the shapeshifter hair, and all he knows is that he can’t make another damn crossroads deal, especially if it expires before he can save Cas. Cas....who is alive, who has to be, because Dean refuses to believe any other option. Demons are manipulative, she could be lying. A small but insistent part of his brain begs the question of why would she tell him Cas is dead if it would mean not getting her deal? He grits his teeth at the thought, and slips his hand into his jacket, the movement very slight, making sure to keep his eyes pinned on hers. His hand closes around Cas’ angel blade, which is tucked into the inside pocket, and the cool, familiar metal in his palm is a brief comfort. The hunter grasps it tight, angling it just so, then tilts his face and leans in the rest of the way to meet her lips with his own. She closes her eyes, anticipating the contact, and Dean chooses that exact moment to swiftly yank the blade from his jacket, not moving away from her but not letting their lips touch just yet. With a practiced, deft maneuver, he aims the point at her chest and uses all the force he can muster to thrust the blade straight through her heart. Her eyes snap open and her head whips up, shock evident in her wide, now all black eyes, and her body starts to crackle with blue light. 

She collapses flat on her back onto the sprayed lines of the broken devil’s trap, blade still buried in her chest, body rigid as she lets out a strangled scream. Dean steps over her and plants a foot on her sternum, pinning her convulsing body to the ground as the angelic power intensifies, blowing out her eyes with a brilliant flash of near-blinding light. The hunter bends over and wraps his hands around the blade’s hilt, drawing it out of the now lifeless human body the demon was inhabiting, and tucks it back into his jacket pocket before crouching beside the spent corpse. Her hands have fallen open, fingers slightly curled with palms up, and he sees the tangle of black shifter hair still resting in her right one. The hunter snags it from her hand and stuffs it securely into his pocket, then gets into the car, leaving the body and demon trap just as they are behind him. He can deal with all of that later; right now, he needs to get to Cas as soon as humanly possible. 

Dean drives like he’s trying to outspeed an explosion behind him, like in those old action movies he and Sam would watch at whatever skeezy motel they were staying at. He blows through red lights and weaves through traffic, undeterred by the multiple honks and middle fingers he receives. At least he doesn’t feel bad pushing this car to the breaking point. Whatever it takes to get him back to Cas and Sam, the only things his mind has any room to obsess over at the moment. Finally he’s pulling into the parking spot outside their motel room, gathering the ingredients from the trunk without a single care of how he must look, and bounds up the steps to unlock the door and let himself in. The lock clicks and he pushes it open, jogging into the room and kicking the door shut behind him, arms laden with dead lamb, a grocery bag full of packaged ground thyme, his pocket full of shifter hair. The scene before him has him frozen in horror.

Cas is awake, and Dean’s heart lurches at the sight, but he’s bent over Sam’s arm in the bed, looking like Sam is the only thing holding him up at all. The angel is throwing up a fountain of blood all over the bedspread, blood splattering the nightstand and hideous wallpaper like some crime scene in the making. His entire body is spasming and he’s scrabbling with his fingers at Sam’s bracing hand, making terrible choking noises and Dean knows he can’t breathe. “Castiel!” Dean cries, dropping everything and launching himself onto the bed.  
“Dean—” Sam starts, his hazel eyes blown wide with fear. The younger Winchester is holding Cas in the best position Dean can think of, but still, the blood pouring from the angel’s mouth seems to have no end and is still preventing him from breathing. Dean is afraid to move them, afraid to make anything worse, but then his fear jumps to Cas’ airways as the angel suddenly sucks in a deep breath and begins to cough viciously, blood spraying all over the three of them and painting the wall and bed with a fine mist. The coughing cuts off with a strangled choking noise, and then Castiel’s chest heaves twice before stopping any rising and falling completely. “CPR! He needs CPR, Dean, there’s blood in his lungs!” Sam urges, and Dean is already rolling Cas onto his back and kneeling beside him. 

Dean presses his palms over one another at the center of the angel’s chest, then begins compressions, counting in his head as he slams the heels of his hands into Cas’ sternum. Cas isn’t choking anymore, isn’t coughing or gasping or anything, and he looks still and lifeless as death, his eyes closed, face white but for the blood dripping down his chin and coating his ashen lips. In the charged silence Dean hears the sharp sound of bone separating from cartilage, feels it beneath his hands, and knows he just broke Cas’ ribs from his sternum. The hunter takes that as a sign to begin mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He bends over Cas and parts the angel’s lips with his own, the sickening taste of still warm blood all his brain registers as he breathes a lungful of air into Cas’ mouth, fingers pinching his nose shut and tilting his head back so his airway is open. Dean pulls back and begins more chest compressions, counting in his head, eyes fixed on Cas’ slack face. “Sam!” Dean barks just before ducking his head to blow more air down into Cas’ lungs.  
“I need you to start making the cure!” Dean commands as he comes up, hands slamming into Cas’ chest so hard he fears he may have broken a few of the angel's ribs as well. Sam scrambles off the bed in compliance, stumbling over to where Dean dropped the supplies and falling to his knees beside them. Dean hears him rummaging through the bags, hears the click of his knife as he unsheathes the blade, then the sound of flesh tearing as Sam starts to drain the lamb of its blood, or maybe he’s working its skull free. It doesn’t matter. Dean presses his lips over Cas’ again, begging, praying for Cas to respond as he forces more oxygen into Cas’ airways. All he can do is hope none of the angel’s ribs have punctured his lungs. Dean’s arms are burning with exertion at how hard he’s pumping them over Cas’ heart, and the hunter figures he should ease up on the force but every instinct in side of him says to go harder, faster, until Cas is breathing again and not in danger of stopping.

The hunter keeps alternating between mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions, counting and pleading in his head, while Sam practically flies around the room behind him, assembling the cure. The eleventh time Dean is mashing Cas’ sternum against his heart, the angel finally responds with a deep, congested gasp, and Dean cries out hopefully, carefully rolling Cas into recovery position as his gasping gains momentum and he’s wracked with coughs once more. “There we go, buddy, just let it out. It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Dean chants as calmly as he can in Cas’ ear. The angel’s body shudders and he starts to convulse so fiercely that he’s flung back against Dean with the force of each cough. Dean tries to hide his fear, his stomach hurtling with his heart into his heels. No one should ever cough so hard their bodies are thrown around in the process, like something out of that exorcist movie. But then again, Cas is fucking dying of a witch’s supernatural poisoning, so what Dean is seeing might well be what’s actually happening. 

The recovery position clearly isn’t helping Cas cough all of the blood out of his lungs, so Dean helps him onto his knees and holds him against his chest, both hands on his shoulders and keeping him steady as he chokes. He continues to murmur soothing nothings into the angel’s ear, but his voice is quickly becoming more strained as Cas’ fits escalate. His body is being thrown so hard that if Dean wasn’t there to hold him, he’d be hitting his head against the headboard or falling off the bed. The coughing is interrupted only by the angel throwing up what looks and smells like more blood and stomach acid, and then the fits quickly resume. “I got you, buddy, I’m not leaving you,” Dean promises, and Cas’ hands knot in the hunter’s jacket, clinging on like Dean is the one thing keeping him together,and it breaks the hunter’s heart. 

Castiel’s coughing takes on a brutal scraping quality, his chest heaving so fast Dean is surprised he can breathe at all. Blood is trickling in twin streams from his nostrils, leaking out of his ears and dribbling from his eyes like he’s crying tears make of the red liquid. Dean tries not to let his panic show, tries to not show how his entire world is Cas right now and it’s — he’s — completely falling apart. The angel’s eyes are desperately locked with Dean’s and Dean refuses to look away from the gruesome sight of his bleeding eyes, blood-smeared lips parted as he continues to make that treacherous grating, keening sound deep in his chest. Castiel’s body convulses on the next cough and something flies out of his mouth and hits Dean right in the neck with a wet slap. The hunter pinches it between his thumb and index finger and holds it up to see what the actual fuck Cas just coughed up. 

It’s a strip of something thin and pale pink, the texture disturbingly similar to that of raw meat, and when Cas coughs up another, this piece slightly larger, only then does Dean make the sickening connection: Castiel is literally coughing up pieces of his insides. What Dean is holding in his hand, this gelatinous, fleshy thing, could very well be part of his lungs, or maybe his esophagus, or God knows what else. Dean resists the urge to throw up with the horrifying realization, struggling to breathe steady against the all-consuming fear for the angel that he feels ripping him to pieces. “It’s okay, Cas,” Dean nearly sobs, pulling the angel to him and cradling his head in his hands. Cas is shaking against him, still coughing so hard he’s bucking within the circle of Dean’s arms, propelled by the supernatural illness shredding his body apart from the inside out. 

“Sam! Is the cure done yet?!” Dean yells, his voice cracking. He can’t do this, oh God, he can’t. The angel he loves is dying in his arms, coughing his lungs up and vomiting so much blood, and there’s nothing Dean can do to stop the disease eating away at him.  
“Everything but the final ingredient is done, I’m gonna translate it now!” Sam shouts back, grabbing the very nearly empty water bottle of potion and taking it like a shot. Dean rocks Cas back and forth, smoothing his hair down over his head while Cas continues to hack up pieces of his lungs, his brother hopefully having taken enough of the now-gone potion to be able to finish reading the last of what they need to save Cas. The older hunter has no idea how they will have time to run out and get whatever the last ingredient is with Cas choking on scraps of his own insides, but there’s only so much he can worry about at the moment. Cas takes top priority.  
“I love you,” Dean murmurs into Cas’ ear, and Cas reaches for Dean’s hand and squeezes. Dean’s vision is blurry with tears and his throat burns from trying to hold them back.  
“Okay, here we go. Final ingredient. It’s all so damn metaphorical, but it says ‘A sacrifice of true love to deactivate the emotion magicks’ will seal the cure and replenish what the disease has destroyed, for good,” Sam shouts.  
“Like true love’s kiss?” Dean sighs in relief; he can do that, he can kiss Cas, even with the angel in the condition he’s in. Hell, he was expecting the final ingredient to be something much harder to achieve, like throwing a virgin into a volcano or some crazy dark shit like that. True love’s kiss? It’s got to be him, he’s Castiel’s true love, right? Cas lurches violently, and judging by the bunching and flexing of his muscles against Dean’s hold, it’s of his own accord. “No! No, Dean, I won’t let you!” Cas is struggling to pull back from the hunter, using every remaining ounce of strength to do so. His eyes are too bright with tears, and filled with terror and desperation. Is Castiel hallucinating again? Dean’s heart stops before picking up double time, and he reaches for Cas even as the angel pushes him away, chest heaving. “You can’t, Dean, you have to let me die,” Cas commands, verging on hysterical. 

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean asks, dumbfounded and more than a little concerned at Cas’ reaction. He places a hand on the angel's shoulder and squeezes reassuringly, not wanting to scare Cas in his volatile state. “Calm down, buddy, it’s alright, I’m not gonna let you die. We have the cure all ready, Sam just figured out the last ingredient so we can get this show on the road. Fix you all up, huh?" Dean forces out a smile, water brimming his eyes. Even his frantic, last ditch attempts at comfort fail to ease the cold fear and determination marring Cas’ face.  
“Dean,” Cas rasps, bloody tears streaming down his face, “It doesn't mean a kiss.” The angel is interrupted by another fit of coughing, tearing another chunk of his lungs and flinging it against Dean’s chest.“It means the ultimate sacrifice of true love,” Cas coughs, the sound scraping up his throat, “which is to give your partner-” he doubles over, clutching at his middle, but doesn’t break eye contact, even as he spits out a mouthful of blood, gasping uncontrollably, “-the very essence of your being.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Your soul, Dean.” A hiccupping sob sends him into a hacking fit, not nearly long enough for the enormity of what he just said to fully sink into Dean’s brain. The hunter is just beginning to grasp it when Cas looks at him with a fierce determination in his eyes and something far sweeter, softer behind it, struggling to choke out more. “And I refuse to let you sacrifice yourself for me. I won’t let you.”


	13. The Ultimate Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Astrophilla, actual true warrior beta <3

“What?! No way, Dean, you can’t—” Sam starts, but Dean silences him with a sharp, desperate look, unable to handle the puppy face and the begging. Not today.  
“Cas,” Dean breathes down at the broken man in his arms, his voice cracking. The angel stares up at him, tears and blood streaming from his eyes, and Dean knows in that moment he can’t keep waiting for a miracle to happen, not when he’s the only one who can do a damn thing to stop this. If there’s anything the hunter can do to save Cas, there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell he won’t do it. He’s spent his whole life sacrificing himself for Sam over and over again, and would do it again in a heartbeat, but never once had it occurred to him that there would be another person in his life who he would readily die for. God knows his soul is far from the perfect sacrifice, despite how Cas thinks otherwise, yet it’s all he has to give, and hopefully, it’s enough. Dean closes his eyes for a second, inhaling through his clenched teeth. Somehow his soul can do some good, can save Cas, so what is he even waiting for? 

“It’s okay, Cas, I told you I’d do anything to save you, and I meant it—” Dean’s cut off when Sam breaks in with a frantic plea.  
“You can’t be serious, Dean, there’s no way you’re going to just kill yourself—” Dean interrupts him, not able to bear Sam going on further. He’s drowning as it is. He turns to face his brother, who’s standing tensely at his side, and shoots him a tear-streaked smirk.  
“You should know me well enough by now to realize I have a nasty habit of doing things I shouldn’t do,” he attempts, but the snark in his voice falls flat enough that both he and Sam wince. Cas reaches for him, no longer trying to distance himself, and Dean pulls him in close, burying his face in the angel’s hair and holding his breath so he doesn’t fall apart. He wishes somehow he could explain it all to Cas, how imperative it is for him to save the angel he loves, how Dean doesn’t care if it kills him so long as Cas is okay. Hell, it’s got to be the best way to go, and the hunter knew his luck would run out eventually. Instead of feeling sad over it, he’s flooded with an inexplicable sense of happiness, because not only will Castiel get to live, but this way, something good can come from his sin-tattered, Hell-wracked soul. There’s nothing more Dean could ask for in death, than for kicking the bucket to save the people he loves. 

Dean clings tight to Cas as the angel breaks down against his chest. A moment passes before Cas pulls back to put just a couple of inches between them, eyes trailing from Dean’s torso back up to his eyes. His sobs have subsided to silent tears that shake his body, and Dean wishes there was more time, time for him to gather Cas in his arms once more and keep him cuddled there in the protection of his embrace. He wishes he had the chance to do things right, wishes he had the opportunity to experience what it means to be in love without the desperate need to flee. He wants to do all that sappy romantic shit with Cas, wants to take him out to dinner and hold his hand while on the road, wants to make love to Cas and wake up next to him without a rush to get back on the hunt. He’s going to get none of that, but as someone once said, it’s better to have loved and lost, and he guesses that they were probably right. 

There really isn’t a better way to go. 

Dean is wishing somehow he could sear each of his thoughts into Cas’ brain so he could understand. There’s just no way he’s going to be able to get them all out. Cas stops his train of thought, his voice shaking and gravelly, but resolute.  
“I won’t let you die for me, Dean. Not ever,” Castiel declares, and before Dean can stop him, he’s lurching forward against the hunter, one arm slinging around Dean’s waist to support him, while the other fumbles over Dean’s stomach. The hunter pulls Cas back in confusion, only to find the angel has wrapped both hands around his blade that Dean still had tucked away on the inside of his jacket. The gears in his brain click and horrific understanding blows through him like an explosion going off.  
“No! Castiel” Dean screams, hands darting down to yank the blade from him, but Cas has been a warrior of Heaven for nearly the entirety of his existence, and the ability to act fast on a decision no matter what his condition carries him through. His eyes never leave Dean’s for a second as he impales his stomach with the angel blade, snapping the weapon with as much calculated lethality he uses on his enemies. The tip pierces his body and Dean is shouting, clutching at the blade’s hilt even as Castiel lances it deeper.

Sam is at Dean’s side, shouting panicked orders, but Dean is too busy clawing Cas’ hands away from the blade to address them. Cas’ arms have gone slack, falling limply to each side of him, and a dark, thick stream of blood gurgles up past his parted lips. Dean’s eyes are fixed on the blade stuck half way through his belly, the blood gushing from the wound like a faucet turned to full, so much blood and Dean can’t stop screaming. “Castiel! Cas, can you hear me?!” Dean cries, leaning over the angel and shaking his shoulders desperately, yelling the angel’s name louder and louder until it’s all he can hear. His hands scrabble over Cas’ neck, fingers digging into his swollen throat in search of a pulse, and his breath hitches when he feels the shallowest, most feeble beat under the pads of his bloody fingers. Cas’ chest is barely rising and falling, irregular and slowing quickly with each passing second, but he’s still alive, he’s still fucking alive, and Dean will do absolutely anything before he gives up.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean croaks, blinking tears out of his eyes as he cups the angel’s face between his palms and kisses his forehead again, praying to every god in existence that Cas would please just open his eyes, mumble his name, anything at all.  
“Leave the blade in, removing it now will make him bleed out,” Sam advises brokenly, and hearing his brother’s frantic instructions makes something click into Dean’s hysterical mind.  
“Sammy, bring me the cure,” Dean says, not taking his eyes from Cas. He brushes his fingers over Cas’ cheek bone, caressing the side of his face and along the ridge of his jaw, begging and begging for Castiel to stay with him, to fight just a little longer. “I love you, Castiel, I love you so fucking much,” Dean cries, agony and devastation tearing through him. “I’ll save you, it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” Dean voice breaks on the last phrase and he’s doubled over Cas as he cries, pleading unintelligibly for Cas to respond.  
“Dean, I can’t let you do this. I can’t let you sacrifice yourself,” Sam declares, and Dean looks up to see his brother standing beside him, holding the lamb’s skull filled with the cure out to him, his whole frame shaking. His bottom lip is trembling and tears pour from his eyes, and all Dean can see is the five year old kid who would cling to Dean with tears streaming down his face whenever he was hurt or afraid. The hunter didn’t think his heart could shatter further, but it does. 

“Sammy, I have to. You know I have to save Cas, you know I’d do anything for the both of you. I can’t let him die,” Dean explains, and a strangled sob erupts from his brother’s mouth.  
“I can’t lose you, Dean, not again. Please,” Sam begs, all defenses crumbled. Tears leak from his eyes and he bites down on his lower lip in the way he always has in an attempt not to bottle his reactions. “What if it doesn’t work and I lose you both? I can’t, I just can’t, Dean.You guys are all I have.” He’s reduced to that scared, loving, innocent kid Dean would reassure with his touch and words, the college boy who would always call to check up on him, the baby brother who hugged Dean so hard it left bruises when the older Winchester returned from Hell. He’s Dean’s little brother, and it kills him that he is going to have to leave him when it’s the one thing he swore he'd never do. The kid with the floppy hair and the dimply smile, too trusting and vulnerable, the one who always cared about Dean and never once stopped. And somehow Dean is supposed to find the words to say goodbye to this kid, his baby brother?  
“It’s gonna be okay, Sammy,” Dean lies, just as he always has to reassure Sam. “You’ve gotta let me go, but I promise, everything will be okay.” Sam’s unable to stifle his sobs, throwing himself against the older hunter and wrapping his arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. Dean reciprocates, fresh tears flowing unrestrained from his eyes.  
“I love you,” Sam declares into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s legs nearly give out with the weight of what he’s leaving behind as he faces oncoming death at his own hand.  
“I love you too, little brother,” Dean replies, squeezing him tight before releasing him. 

Castiel is still unresponsive as ever on the bed, blood continuing to pour from his stomach wound, the angel blade still plunged deep inside of him. He’s still breathing, though just barely, but that’s all Dean needs to save him. “How do I get my soul out?” he asks Sam, as if somehow his little brother might know.  
“The angel blade can release Grace, so maybe it will also help you access your soul if--” Sam sucks in a stuttering breath, visibly trying to prevent losing himself to the wracking sobs again, “if you k-kill yourself with it, like a blood sacrifice, it'll work,” Sam’s chest heaves and he has to bury his face in his hands to regain some semblance of composure. Just as Dean is about to ask Sam to help him administer the cure while he figures out how to remove the angel blade, Cas gasps suddenly, choking, eyelids fluttering and eyes rolling. Dean snaps to attention, forgetting everything but his angel, the fact that he is conscious now and that this might well be the very last time they have to talk. The thought puts a lump in Dean’s throat, which could very well be his heart. There are a thousand things he wants to say, but before he can attempt to get even one of them out, Cas is weakly but diligently focusing his eyes and opening his mouth to speak, hazy blue irises fixed on the older hunter. 

“Dean Winchester,” Cas breathes, his lips forming the words with a certain relish, as if they’re one of the best things that can be said. Dean’s throat aches as he fights the urge to sob, needing to hear what Cas says and knowing this is his last chance to do so. The hunter folds his legs beneath him on the bed and gently draws Cas’ head into his lap, threading his fingers through the angel's messy hair, keeping his eyes anchored to Cas’ as if both their lives depend on it. He hears Sam muffling his own cries into his arms, perching on the edge of the bloodied bed beside them, and he reaches out his free hand to rest it on his brother’s shoulder, then turns to Cas as the angel struggles to tell the hunter more. “I love you with every piece of me, my whole being, the very depths of my Grace and beyond.” Castiel smiles up at Dean, lips quivering and something deep inside Dean thrashes at the sight. “I’ve loved you like this even before I understood what the word truly meant. It has been the greatest honor to do so, to fight with and for you, to experience all of your joys and your pains, and to help carry your burdens.” Cas breaks off to cough weakly, his hand going to Dean’s in his hair and entwining it with his own.

He takes a deep breath and continues, his voice gravelly and affectionate, visceral. “You have gifted me with more in just six short years-” Cas breaks off to cough, eyes closing before dutifully fixing on Dean again. “-than I have ever known through my eternities of existence.” He releases a shaking breath and squeezes Dean’s hand. His words are growing fainter, slower, and Dean is so scared but he has to let Cas say what he needs to. “Nothing can express how much you mean to me, how I love you unlike anything has loved before. You’re worth all I did for you and so much more.” Cas swallows hard and chokes on the blood clotting his throat, taking several deep breaths before continuing. “I want to give you everything there is to give. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, nothing that could ever come close to taking you away from me. Which is why I can’t -- I won’t -- let you do this. I need you to live, my beloved. You are my everything and I cannot exist in a world where you are not.”  
“Why does this sound so much like a fucking goodbye?” Dean demands through his relentless tears. Cas just smiles tiredly at him, his eyes are begging as he squeezes Dean’s hand. “You have to let me go.” 

Cas’ eyelids flutter shut and his hand goes slack in Dean’s. Dean is stunned to silence for a full two seconds before he goes completely unhinged, snapping as his angel loses consciousness. “No! No, no, no,” Dean yells, triggering the tears he was struggling to hold back in full force. “Cas, Castiel.” Dean cradles Cas’ head in his palms while Sam feels for the angel’s pulse in his wrist. “You can’t go, dammit! You’re staying right here, you’re staying right here with me!” Dean roars, slipping one hand under Cas’ neck to support his head and adjust its position in preparation for the cure. “Sam!” Dean cries for help, and his brother rushes to angle Cas’ jaw so his open mouth is just right. “I can’t lose him, Sam, we need to hurry,” Dean barks, then focuses his attention back on Castiel. “Stay with me, fuck! I love you, you bastard, you can’t die on me. I won’t let you!” 

“Take the blade out, Dean,” Sam orders, already tilting the lamb’s skull just enough so that a thin stream of the cure pours out and into Cas’ mouth. Sam rubs at Cas’ throat, getting him to swallow, then continues letting the cure trickle in. “Do it gently, just pull it out.” Dean nods violently, he can do that, he can follow instructions and save the angel he loves. Sam keeps administering the cure while Dean wraps both hands around the blade, knuckles bone white and tendons straining over them, and he grits his teeth, looking to Sam one last time. Sam nods solemnly, encouraging him on, and Dean slowly draws the blade out of Cas’ stomach. It goes with a sickening squelch as the blade retracts from his torn stomach, a fresh torrent of blood spilling out over Cas’ abdomen. Dean’s own stomach clenches and he forces down bile as he removes it all the way, grabbing a shirt from the floor and mashing it into the gaping, ragged hole to staunch the now surprisingly slow blood flow. It’s like Cas’ body has given up, and that only makes Dean that much more desperate to keep what little blood he has left from leaking out. “He drank it all,” Sam announces, setting the skull down and turning to face Dean. “You know I’ll fight my way to the ends of the earth to bring you back, Dean.” Sam sniffles. Dean quirks his lips into a teary smirk and replies,  
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” This time, Dean initiates the hug and holds on with everything he has. 

“I’m so proud to be your big brother, Sammy,” Dean chokes out, smiling through his tears at Sam, who can do nothing more than smile back. He pats Sam on the shoulder, feeling like his guts have been scooped out of him, and then grasps the blade in both hands, positioning it with the point touched to his chest, right over his wildly beating heart. His eyes fall on Cas, and a huge weight comes with the knowledge that this is his very last chance to look at him, to hear him, to say what he needs to say. This is it. No more get-of-jail-free cards, no more deals, nothing. He’d better make this count. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean starts, voice breaking when he says the angel’s name. He’s not sure he can get the words out, but is sure as hell going to try. “I love you so much, buddy. More than you'll ever know.” Dean closes his eyes and swallows hard, then reopens them to look at Cas for what he knows will be the last time. “You’ll come find me wherever I end up, right, Cas? You don’t get away from a pain in the ass like me this easily,” Dean chokes out a teary laugh. He knows somewhere inside him that sacrifice means his soul won’t go to Heaven or Hell, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Dean meets Sam’s eyes one last time, looking from him to Cas and back again. He brushes Cas’ hair back and kisses his forehead indulgently, then pulls back and digs the tip of the blade into his chest over his heart, making sure it’s centered. He’s crying so hard he can hardly see the blurry outlines of their figures, but it doesn’t make anything easier, like he’d hoped. “You’ll look after Sammy for me, won’t you, buddy?” Dean asks, smiling down at the angel. One more gasping sob from Sam, another labored inhale from Castiel. 

And Dean forces the blade into his chest.


	14. An Out of Body Experience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the one and only Astrophilla, the James Bond of editing ;) <3

Dean is falling. Falling in a way he’s never fallen before.

He’s descending further and further from the bright, chaotic, vivid awareness that’s all he’s ever known and it’s more disorienting than his passage into any afterlife he’s ever ended up in. The hunter has been to all three — Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell — a feat very few can claim to. There’s no sudden pop into existence in the dark forests of Purgatory, no stringing up over the flaming pits of Hell, and no heavenly bright light and the warm embrace of his mom. It’s absolutely terrifying, because life as he knew it is growing further away and no amount of kicking and screaming will allow him to worm his way back to it. His body, his baby brother, the angel he’s in love with — all are swallowed up in what he once knew, now just a speck, a mere memory behind him. He’s falling headlong into something he’s never known before, and all he can do is let it happen.

The hunter is slipping deeper and deeper away from himself, shattering like a glass dropped on a hardwood floor. It’s happening so slow he can feel each part of him falling away and scattering in the abyss, senses bleeding out behind him along with everything else that held some meaning, some solid, concrete form of reality in some other place. With no awareness of the life he left behind, or even the knowledge that it’s still there, he finds himself just letting it happen. Here he has no perception; he can’t feel anything at all around him. He sees nothing, not even darkness. It’s like he’s never had vision to begin with, like sight was never a possibility. The same goes with scent, taste, and hearing. ‘Nothing’ has never held true meaning like it does here, because that is all there is. An absolute void of emptiness is his entire universe and it is both so simple and complex the only thing to really do is just be, be nothing in a world of nothing. Dean Winchester, once hunter of the supernatural, brother of Sam Winchester, and lover of Castiel, Angel of Thursday, is finally nothing. 

He feels his grasp on his own self-awareness slipping, and he’s willing to let it go when suddenly, there’s something out there that defies it all. Suddenly a million things spring into existence, all because this single… _thing_ that has come to be. Something else is out there, and he’s no longer alone, something that’s sparking thousands of new senses, creating a world out of the all-consuming void there once was. Feeling and sensation is pulling at Dean — who actually is, now that he’s fought to pull himself back, though nothing he’s ever been before — and it’s the one thing here anchoring him, giving him substance, depth, dimension. Dean had grown content to let go, to allow the final few pieces of himself he held on to disperse, but the presence he feels out here with him, it _needs_ ; pure, raw, basic need, and the tiny pull of it refuses to completely let him go. He’s so close, so damn close to being done, done forever. All he has to do is allow the tide to take him, and it’s over. But there’s that need, so distant that it feels millions of miles away, yet somehow, it’s important enough that Dean can’t surrender without at least trying to satisfy it.

Dean musters up everything he is, and reaches out.

***  
“Dean! You can’t do this, you have to come back. _Dean_ , please!” The words are harsh and desperate, running into each other; and they are groundbreaking, lighting up his awareness despite the fact that he can’t understand them. “Stay with me! Please, Dean, I need you to breathe for me. Don’t you dare leave me!” a voice orders, bordering on hysteria, pleading, and authoritative. Hands. There are big, familiar hands gripping too tight to each of Dean’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he barely notices over the mess of agony his body is twisted in. He feels like he’s been hit by a train and torn apart, only to be hastily reassembled with everything put back the wrong way. Try as he might, the hunter can’t identify a single source of mind-bendingly intense pain, just a collective whole that’s worse than everything he’s ever experienced, combined. 

“Please, Dean!” The voice is painfully familiar but he can’t quite place it until he can, and recognition hits the hunter like a freight train. It’s _Cas_ , and he’s begging, gravelly voice cracking as he shakes Dean harder. He’s unable to respond, his head lolling to the side as he scrambles to gain control over himself and order his eyes to open, force his lips to form words, anything to let Cas know he’s okay now that he’s at least somewhat aware of being corporeal. Cas. Fuck! Bright, vivid memories flood in like a dam bursting and suddenly his world is narrowed to the overwhelming compulsion to know that the angel is okay, that he’s no longer on the verge of death. If Dean is alive, then something has gone wrong, because his sacrifice was meant to kill him. If it hadn’t worked, then Cas hasn’t been cured of the poison. Worry constricts like a snake around Dean’s insides and he flounders around in his head for control of his responses, needing to open his eyes and see Cas like he needed oxygen. He needs to know Cas is healing or that the cure was a success, otherwise he’s going to have to haul his ass up and take drastic measures. 

“Dean, Dean,” Cas is crying now, still just as urgent and demanding of the hunter’s revival, but now he sounds like he’s openly sobbing, his voice deep and broken. A pang that is entirely separate from what’s going on with his body shoots through his chest, and more than ever he needs to get himself back under control so he can calm Cas down. Hell, the angel could be bleeding out right now and still begging for Dean’s life, and he can’t do a damn thing to stop it. Dean has to see for himself that he’s okay, or so help him, he will find that damn angel blade and kill himself all over again. 

He thrashes and kicks, but the blackness that had pulled him under with lightning speed before is now bubbling up behind his eyes, eating at the edges of his blank vision and threatening to claim him for itself. He sees streaks of light and color through his eyelids, stained a bright blood-red, but the dark is quickly swarming him from all sides, pulling at his consciousness with promise to end the chaotic pain of balancing on the brink of giving in. Cas is alive and talking, so he has to be okay. Dean is just so damn tired, and if Cas is no longer flirting with death, then he can just give in to the exhaustion and stop worrying for once in his life. “Sam! Get out! My Grace — you need to get out!” Cas shouts, loud enough for the abyss to loosen its grip, if only for a moment. There’s a resounding thud that echoes in his head, but that’s all Dean gets before white hot, mind-numbing pain is lancing through his chest, jagged and vicious. Something buried deep down inside him finds its way to the surface and he’s crying out in agony, back arching, body contorting against the sudden onslaught of torture. 

The darkness rises up with a vengeance, slipping around him like cool water over a burn, and this time he welcomes the pain-free nothingness it holds with open arms. It’s an escape, and he hates himself for it but he’s giving in, and once it starts, he can’t stop. He knows he’s got to fight his way back to his angel, fight tooth and nail the blissful blackness once again sucking him into its void. He’s Dean fucking Winchester, he can’t succumb like this. Not when he has Cas to save and his brother to look out for, but the more he struggles, the faster he falls. “—reckless, Dean, why must you always — sacrifices—” Dean picks up bits and pieces of Cas’ words, so full of pain and sorrow. “Desperate hunter, throwing away his treasures—” a ragged, gasping sob— “—why can’t you understand how precious you are—” Dean feels something press firmly over the obliterating pain in his chest, sealing it with what must be Cas’ hand, and there is all-encompassing light.

It’s blindingly bright, a white-blue brilliance that sends every last tendril of the relentless dark burning away into nothing the very second it appears. Not only does Dean see the light through his leaden eyelids, he _feels_ it. It’s soothingly warm and soft, familiar and reassuring as it spills through him from a point at his chest, singing through his body with an urgency that would be alarming had Dean not been so enamored by it. It hurts so good, pooling in his chest. He deliriously imagines he can feel his cells knitting back together, restored and made brand new once again. The pain has no chance against this light — Cas’ Grace, for Dean has no doubt that’s what this is — and it quickly burns out, just as the looming darkness had. It feels like just seconds later the light flows back out of him, chasing away any lingering discomfort as it goes, and then his vision is streaked with psychedelic colors as the light disappears completely.

In its absence, a new kind of pain arises. It brings with it a new understanding of what agony actually is, one that even in Hell, Dean was never exposed to. It’s far more final, deeper and somehow more intense because of what it is coming from — something at Dean’s very core that he’s never been aware of before, something that is shattered. “Dean! Dean, are you with me?” Cas begs, and Dean fights his way to the surface, no longer tethered inside of himself by the arms of oblivion. He forces open his eyes and gasps in a breath as the pain escalates, tearing through him with such vehemence that he idly wonders how he’s still alive. 

Cas’ blurry face pulls into focus and he can see his angel is living, so much more so than before Dean’s sacrifice. There’s a beautiful flush of blood in his cheeks and he’s kneeling beside Dean, a stance he hasn’t been able to support himself in for days. He’s weeping openly, face all hard lines of fear and desperation and frantic anxiety, his lips moving as he shouts more words Dean can’t understand through the ringing in his ears. Does this mean he did it, that his sacrifice cured him? It doesn’t make sense. If it had worked, then how is Dean still breathing? It’s too hard to think with the agony multiplying at his core by the second, and he feels that he’s on the edge of being completely annihilated by it. 

Cas curves his palm to fit the side of Dean’s cheek and cups the hunter’s face with it, and Dean’s able to distinguish fluid Enochian spilling from Cas’ lips in a rushed line. The words resonate viscerally inside him and dampen the pain just enough that he can focus on what the angel is doing. He feels the thin veil keeping the torment just barely at bay but knows there is no way it will hold. “The magicks from the cure have torn your soul apart. I can’t keep your body alive for much longer with your soul ravaged to almost nothing—” a strangled sob breaks Cas off, but he continues, eyes glowing an ethereal blue with the Grace behind them, “—the only way I can save you is if I bond my Grace to your soul.” Cas gasps, muttering more Enochian under his breath. Dean can see how hard he’s exerting himself to keep Dean lucid, and the hunter knows he needs to make a decision and fast, because both of them are hardly holding on. 

“Do it, trust you, Cas,” Dean manages to get through his clenched teeth. “Can’t be without you.” The pain is surging at the veil Cas has in place, building up and ramming at it and Dean can feel himself falling to pieces with each passing second. There’s torture in Cas’ eyes, and he makes a frustrated sound that sounds like it gets caught in his throat. He wants to figure out why Cas looks so torn, but the angel beats him to the punch.  
“You need to understand just how consequential, how final a soul bond is,” Cas hurries, speaking so fast it’s a challenge for Dean to understand him. “It means tying yourself to me forever— ” he tries to explain, but the barely restrained force finally wins out and shreds through the veil his Grace had made to hold it off, and Dean is screaming. He’s able to form one coherent thought and spit it out: “Want it, want you.”

With that, Dean closes his eyes as Cas plants one palm flat over his heart and keeps the other in place against his cheek. The pain is mind blowing, like nuclear warfare is taking place inside of him, blowing him to bits and pieces. Cas slides his hand over Dean’s chest and onto his shoulder, lining his fingers up over what must be the handprint scar, because as soon as he finishes edging his hand just right, that same light he had experienced earlier returns, its intensity rising tenfold. Cas’ presence — his Grace, reaching out for Dean — is astounding, so much more powerful than it was before, so visceral, pure, familiar. Dean’s mutilated, mangled soul reacts almost violently as it reaches out for Cas’ Grace, and the thrill of sheer, acute need the hunter feels at finally being able to join with Cas’ Grace is stunning. He loses awareness of the world around him, sinking into Castiel’s embrace, and drowns in the sensation until the world has fallen away and there’s nothing left but the two of them. The joy he feels isn’t a surprise; he’s always wanted this, even if he didn’t know exactly what _it_ was. 

Castiel’s Grace is glorious and immense, but simultaneously welcoming and warm, promising protection and care and so much more. Dean’s soul is too weak to throw itself headlong into it like he so desperately wants but that doesn’t stop Cas from closing the distance between them, tendrils of Grace beginning to sink deep into Dean’s soul. Cas is everywhere, in every sense, and Dean eagerly spreads himself to allow the angel better access, to get closer, deeper. The hunter knows down to his core that no one would be able to stop what’s happening here — their merging of soul and Grace, nor the bonding — not with the base, instinctive way they need this, and need each other. It’s like the relentless rise and crest of the ocean waves, the way Cas rushes into him and pulls him in. Every star in Dean’s sky is going supernova with pleasure as Cas surrounds him, cradling his soul and flooding into each hole where the magick tore him apart. Where the edges burn and the absence of himself feels like agony in its truest form, Cas is replacing it is ecstasy and euphoria; protection, completeness, and love. 

Is that what this over-abundant feeling is, the one that has Dean’s soul writhing joyfully in the strong, nurturing embrace of Castiel’s Grace in and around him? Love. It’s like liquid sunshine and molten gold shining through him, filling him up where he was so painfully empty, soothing each raw discomfort where some essential part of him was ripped away. Now Cas is that essential part that, his Grace finding a home in each place Dean’s soul was nuked. Somehow it feels so much better, so right this way. With his soul’s energy restored, Dean can finally reciprocate in curling into Cas’ Grace. He plunges into him as far as he can, straight to his very core, and suddenly it’s like he can see everything. He sees feeling, emotions as colors and lights and he understands them all, understands each and its meaning. He sees the swirls of blue light spiraling through white, sees the different patterns and shades and the meaning of each resonates deep inside him, where he feels Cas is already memorizing with his Grace.

Castiel is in love with Dean. Deeply, wholly, unfathomably in love. He feels everything Cas feels for him through the angel, in startling clarity, and it absolutely floors him. He feels Cas’ fondness, every time Dean makes a joke he doesn’t get, his attraction when Dean changes his shirt after a hunt or when the angel studies his figure. He feels desire just watching Dean drive his baby along unnamed some stretch of road, compassion when he observes as Dean changes the bandages on his brother’s hands, and protectiveness when something threatens Dean’s life. Endearment, jealousy, faithfulness, loyalty, devotion — love — all of it sings through Cas’ Grace at a million different moments over the several years they have known each other. Dean feels everything from the triumph Cas felt saving him from the pits of Hell, to the awe and care he took in rebuilding Dean from ash on up. He feels how conflicted the angel was when he realized his love for Dean far surpassed anything he felt for Heaven, and his complete faith that his rebellion was worth every second. One of the most striking of all is when Cas looks into Dean’s soul and feels such a warm rush of pure adoration that only grows each time he would do so.

Something tugs Dean’s soul back from the deluge of memories and feelings at Cas’ very center and is greedily tightening around him, eager to join and become one. Dean’s soul entwines itself with Cas’ Grace, meshing the two of them so inextricably, so deeply and closely, that not a single thing could ever draw them apart. Two merge into one and it feels so fucking good in every way. Dean’s soul is writhing in overpleasured exhilaration, and most overwhelmingly, love. The elation Cas’ Grace is practically screaming in is so overjoyed and proud, singing of fulfillment and promises of protection, care, support, and eternal, undying love. They’re both lost in the heady pleasure of the other’s jubilation at finally having their other half for good. 

The hunter feels Cas’ Grace urging him towards another dimmer point out in his consciousness, and offers him the promise that he will be with him every step of the way while Dean reluctantly follows the pull to the surface, or whatever it may lead to. It’s like plowing into a whole different universe, which sucks him in once he is close enough. He goes willingly, confident Cas won’t leave him no matter where they are or what they’re doing.

***

Dean comes to draped over Cas’ stretched out form, so blissed out it takes him a moment to get a hold of his thoughts and become more or less coherent. It’s disorienting to blink his eyes open to the motel room, which is in a total state of destruction. The wallpaper has peeled in long strips down the walls, the windows are completely blown out, only a few jagged shards of glass lining the frames, and the bulb in the light overhead has exploded, leaving broken glass littering the floor. He idly wonders what the hell happened, though through the fog of pleasure and happiness in his brain, he can’t find it in himself to care about anything. Not even with the rapidly cooling mess in his pants. Cas is shifting underneath him, gathering the boneless, now weak hunter to his chest and wrapping his arms around him as Dean curls up against his side, shamelessly molding his body to the shape of Cas. 

“Now you know there has never been another who has loved with the intensity, the ferocity with which I love you,” Castiel breathily declares with a voice bordering on reverence as they make eye contact. He adjusts Dean’s position so he’s more comfortable, seeming to automatically know how Dean’s feeling and how to make it better. Dean’s eyes water and his throat becomes clogged with emotion. He kisses Cas’ shoulder, since it’s as close to the angel’s mouth as he can reach from where he is, and wishes somehow he could find a way to express exactly how much Castiel means to him. He does his best, knowing that just saying the three words will somehow convey everything he needs them to.

“I love you,” he rasps, the words he has uttered to no one but Sammy, John and Mary before, finally out. He waits for the backlash, for the fear to rise up in him at having vocalized it, but there’s nothing but an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. It feels right to tell Cas this, because he really does love him, more than he could ever articulate. Cas smiles down at him and Dean takes a moment to admire how beautiful and healthy he is, his eyes bright, skin nearly glowing, all signs of sickness erased. Somehow Dean’s sacrifice worked and the cure saved him, but that just begs the question: how?

“Cas, how am I still alive?” Dean asks, words croaky and scraping up his throat. Cas’ expression goes from warm to serious and concerned, and his arms tighten around Dean as he pulls the hunter closer, one hand gently coming to press over his heart.  
“When you sacrificed your soul by—” Cas has to take a deep, steadying breath before getting the word out, “—killing yourself, the cure was activated and the magick devoured your soul as it fled my system. The poison lost its grip on my Grace and I was able to heal myself, but it was also obliterating your soul and I had to stop it before there was nothing left.” Cas’ face is contorted in pain, his eyes brimming with it, and only now can Dean see exactly what this must’ve done to Cas. He must’ve been terrified; when their positions were switched, Dean had been hysterical. “I repaired your body and destroyed the poison before it could devour your soul entirely, but the damage done was already so immense there was no chance you would survive, let alone cease to be in agony.” Cas kisses the top of Dean’s head, then laces his fingers with Dean’s and rests their hands on his chest. 

“The only way I could save you was to bind myself to you. I did my best to inform you of its consequences in the time we had, and I wish we’d had the opportunity to do so under our own terms. The union of Grace, or in our case, soul and Grace, is the most sacred ritual in all the universe. You tie yourself to your partner forever, and merge core energies. It’s the most intimate of acts and can not be undone, meant to seal the bond and provide a deeper level of intimacy even past death. It’s something I couldn’t have done unless your soul wanted it just as much, nor if we weren’t as seamlessly compatible as we are — the term ‘soul mates’ is as near to the Enochian word for it as I can get. The only way this could’ve happened is if we were soul mates, Dean, and I hope you know that perfect unison like this could only result from love in its truest form. I wish I had time before to explain this all to you, to give you the chance to choose if and when you wanted to bond with me, but please understand, I could not let you die.” Cas closes his eyes, and when opens them, tears threaten to spill over his waterline. “I couldn’t lose you.”

Dean shakes his head, ignoring the tears dripping down his face as he grips Cas’ hand tighter in his, squeezing. “No, Cas, I need you to understand. It was… there are no words. I would have chosen it in a heartbeat. There’s no one I’d rather be tied to than the angel I love, and I gathered enough from what you told me before to know that it’s exactly what I wanted. I want _you_ , Cas, in every way possible. I guess it’s just bonus points that you saved my life in the process, huh?” Dean laughs and Cas’ eyes are soft on his, adoring as they shine with tears.  
“I’ll tell you all you wish to know about the bond in just a moment, but there’s something that I’ve been wanting to do properly for years now,” Cas hums. 

He reaches to adjust Dean’s position so the hunter is lying on top of him, and tenderly cradles Dean’s face in his hands. Their gazes melt into one another and anticipation sings through Dean, like he can feel both his and Cas’ eagerness for what is to come. He tilts his head the rest of the way and his angel’s lips part beneath his. Dean doesn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss by dipping his tongue inside, tasting saltiness from combined blood and tears, and Cas returns the favor, unpracticed but passionate. The angel is gentle, each stroke of his tongue and press of his lips cloyingly slow-building. He’s taking his time in exploring, while Dean is desperate and needy, catching Cas’ bottom lip between his teeth and sucking, then releasing to lave at it with his tongue. His closed eyelids are stained red with heat, and he kisses Cas even more reverently, wanting to immerse himself in the angel and forget anything else exists but the two of them right here, right now. 

Some amount of time later Dean pulls back for breath, and from the corner of his eye, sees the busted out windows. He turns to them with raised brows, and just has to ask with an amused grin, “What happened to the room?”


	15. All's Well, Ends Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Astrophilla <3 
> 
> See the end notes for more. :)

Dean eyes the wreckage of the room, wondering what could possibly have caused this much damage. Castiel lowers his gaze abashedly, and his coy response has Dean’s brows rising in pleasant surprise. “Try though I might, I—I struggled to control myself. I believed I had better control, but upon the bond’s completion I was overwhelmed, unable to contain my true voice and form. It proved to be very… destructive,” Cas finishes, looking down at Dean through his eyelashes. If angels could blush, Dean’s sure that’s what Cas would be doing, and the sight makes his pulse jump.  
“So, you just came in your pants, Heaven-style?” Dean clarifies, grinning widely, not unaware of the mess in his own underwear. Cas tilts his head and Dean laughs at the familiar, endearing gesture, squeezing their entwined hands.  
“I had to cover your ears and eyes to prevent you from being both deafened and blinded, it is not something to be taken lightly. If there is to be a next time, I will have to work on reinforcing the parameters of my vessel,” Cas admits with determination, and the hunter’s eyes widen.  
“ _Next_ time? You mean that wasn’t a one-time gig?” Dean can’t stop over-eagerness from flooding into the sentence, and he bites his lip as the angel assesses him with raised brows. Cas’ confusion breaks as he chuckles, affectionately running his free hand through Dean’s hair.  
“Not at all; it can be as often as you like. It won’t be quite so intense, of course, as the bond has already been consummated. You will still find it both stimulating and meaningful, though.” 

Dean’s smiles widens at the prospect, twisting around feebly in Cas’ arms to reach up and kiss him, only to find his body is too weak for even that. His joints feel like they’ve turned to sponge and his muscles are lax, nerve endings tingling pleasantly. Boneless, blissed-out exhaustion shrouds his entire body and though he’s never felt this way before, it’s not at all bad. He feels like he’s glowing, maybe, the sheer euphoric afterglow rendering his body limp and delightfully useless. It feels gratifying, but not being able to support himself is pretty damn frustrating, especially when Castiel’s swollen, cherry lips are looking pretty damn kissable right now. Dean persists, attempting to put weight on one arm and prop himself up and it’s futile at best, but at least his wrist has been healed — the bulky cast and limited useage of his arm would have been guaranteed to drive him crazy. 

Cas notices what he’s trying to do and shifts an arm to pull him closer, slipping one hand through the short hair at his temple and cradling his face in a warm palm, allowing Dean to rest his head as he seals their lips. The hunter threads his fingers into Cas’ hair and tips his head back, licking into his mouth as Cas’ tongue presses against the backs of his teeth, sighing contentedly. Dean delves deeper, sucking Cas’ lower lip into his mouth only to release it, swiping his tongue over the full curve of it and moaning as Cas bites his own bottom lip back. Dean has to break the kiss a moment later for breath, too drained to pull oxygen into his lungs, his head lolling backwards despite Cas’ grip on his neck. 

“H’much longer am I not gonna be able to move?” he asks through shallow breaths as Cas mouths at his throat, tongue laving away at the bites he leaves to stake his claim. Heat rises to Dean’s cheeks and he stretches his neck, allowing Cas to guide his head back with a gentle hand and expose more of his neck to the angel’s seeking lips.  
“Your body is recovering from both its resurrection and the bond which revived you, so it’s to be expected that you are weak.. I’ve already used my Grace to speed your recovery as much as possible, but the lethargy may be prominent for another twenty-four hours or so. Your strength will return gradually,” Cas breathes against Dean’s throat, sucking a sensual kiss over his jugular. Dean grumbles in half-hearted irritation, but any unhappiness at his lingering lack of strength dissipates with each mark Cas’ hot mouth leaves on Dean’s neck. Dean’s eyes roll back at the heady suction and he allows himself to just be held like this; Cas’ strong arms holding him together, keeping him safe when he can hardly even move his own limbs. “I need to inform you, now that we are bound, you’re able to communicate with and perceive me in new ways. Can you feel my presence inside you now? I’m always going to be there, just as I feel the warmth of yours within me.”

Dean frowns in confusion, the haze of arousal Cas’ kisses have put him into not helping him process the new information. “What do you mean? You can hear what I’m thinking, tell what I’m feeling?” Dean asks, trying to focus on Cas’ presence in his head. He feels him — warm, familiar, loving — like another layer to his consciousness, one that’s just as closely him, only he knows that it’s Cas. He reaches out towards the bond tying them, the feeling of it comforting and intimate, and Cas responds by sending a wave of affection and contentment over the bond, hitting Dean so hard he can’t help but smile.  
“I’m privy to nothing you don’t wish me to be, but I’ll always have a vague sense of how you’re feeling. But no, I will never be able to read your thoughts as you think them; only what you send through the bond to me,” Cas explains, thumb tracing the curve of Dean’s cheekbone as he gazes into his eyes. “The bond can also be used to communicate things you wouldn’t be able to verbally or physically, and we can also use it for metaphysical copulation.”  
“You mean soul sex? Or soul-Grace sex?” Dean catches Cas’ bottom lip gently between his teeth and then releases so the angel can reply.  
“Yes. Would you like me to show you exactly what our bond as a mated pair is capable of?” Cas asks, his voice lowering a few octaves until it’s unfairly gravelly, deep and alluring. Cas could list entries from the dictionary in that voice and Dean would be sporting a hard-on within minutes.  
“Hell yes!”

Cas shifts Dean in his arms until the angel is sitting up against the headboard and holding Dean curled against his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around the hunter’s waist while the other slides up along his bare shoulder, stopping just beneath the handprint scar there. “May I undress you?” Cas asks, voice low and sultry, and Dean can’t even form the eager ‘yes’ with his lips, nodding jerkily instead. Cas’ resulting smile makes Dean’s heart skip a beat, and he’s lost in the press of a heated kiss to his lips, almost missing the fingers touched to his chest and the sudden chill of completely bare skin. The cool breeze blowing in through the wrecked windows is a contrast to Cas against him, clad in only Dean’s boxers and t-shirt from earlier. All the blood and gore has been zapped by his Grace, but that doesn’t stop Dean from wanting them off, craving the feeling of the angel’s skin hot against his. He opens his mouth to ask but the words come out as a broken grunt when Cas lifts his hand and places it over the handprint, overlapping his scar perfectly. 

The _something_ — Dean’s soul, he guesses, but the thought still hurts his head — that had felt so good when Cas accessed it earlier is suddenly exploding with pleasure, joy, and love. He finds the deepest part of himself reaching for Cas’ touch, their bond pulsating with euphoria. Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s arm and his Grace floods through the bond, and Dean whimpers at the onslaught of sensation. Cas was right; this is nothing like the first time, no frantic rush, no dire need for the angel to save his life; it’s like Cas is just luxuriating in the connection, and taking his time to show Dean what’s been forged between them. The touch of his Grace is distinctively more sensual, but couple with adoration, devotion and endless affection, it’s like nothing Dean’s ever known. His soul writhes at the ambrosial touch, sensitive to each stroke and swirl of Cas’ Grace. He’s only somewhat conscious of his physical body, but has enough control to pull Cas into a heady kiss, yearning for his body to at least try and catch up with the pleasure assaulting his mind. 

Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn’t last long, not with the ecstasy his soul is drowning in, tethered to reality by nothing more than Cas’ hand on his handprint scar. His toes curl as the coil of pleasure deep in his groin tightens and tightens, every brush of Castiel’s lips against his sweat-slicked skin and every curled tendril of his Grace around Dean’s soul push him closer to the edge until he’s crying out, blood rushing in his ears. He comes with a shout, back arching off Cas’ chest, hands fisting into the angel’s borrowed t-shirt, and locks eyes with him, transfixed by the awe inscribed into each of his features. He’s gazing at Dean in stunned silence, as if Dean is his only salvation, and it makes Dean’s racing heart skip a beat or two. The force of Dean’s orgasm ripples through his body and his vision swims from the intensity of it tearing him apart. Cas captures his lips in a wet, passionate kiss, licking into the hunter’s mouth and Dean’s whining into the caress of his tongue, overcome with emotion. Desperate to convey them, he takes the outpour of sensations and reaches for the almost tangible presence of the link between them, shoving everything he can through it to Cas. The angel’s Grace swells with contentment around him, both his joy and Dean’s, their feelings shared, pushing Cas over the edge into his own orgasm. 

A moment passes before Dean fully comes back to his body, finding himself completely spent and even more drained and fucked out than before, unable to move but for grinning weakly up at his angel. “Mmkay,” he breathes, “we’re doing that again asap. Man, this angel soul-sex stuff is _awesome_ ,” Dean chuckles drowsily, spit-slicked lips brushing Cas’ again before the angel can get a few words in. He still looks near reverent, eyes never leaving Dean’s, every line of his face and way he touches the hunter communicating a kind of love Dean has never felt before. It’s awe-inspiring and visceral, and he never knew exactly how bad he needed it until now.  
“What you showed me — what you _felt_ when you climaxed…” Cas trails off, blinking furiously like he’s fighting back tears, swallowing hard as his voice cracks with emotion. He tightens his arms around Dean, pulling him more snug to his chest and resting their foreheads together. “I feel the same for you, my beloved. I love you. I have seen to the very depths of your soul and I love you the same.”

“Dammit Cas, c’mere,” Dean manages to get out, his eyes watering as the bond communicates the angel’s sincerity and how much their bond truly means to the hunter. Cas cradles Dean to him, tucking Dean’s head under his chin and kissing the top of his head. The angel sends pulses of warm affection and comfort over the bond, letting Dean acclimate to the sensations as he cleans them of their cooling come with a touch. They lie entangled in one another, breathing the same air for an immeasurable moment before Cas brushes his thumb over Dean’s lips.  
“Are you feeling any stronger yet?” the angel asks softly, knuckles grazing over Dean’s jaw as he caresses his face. Dean snorts, fitting his chest more soundly to Cas’.  
“Not really, but I just came back from the dead, so not really a shocker.” Dean chuckles a little before he realizes Cas’ expression has gone from warm and relaxed to serious in a heartbeat. He feels the angel tense up against him, and furrows his brow in confusion, fixing Cas with a bewildered frown. “What’s with the sourpuss, Cas? I’m fine, just gotta give it some time, like you said,” Dean attempts to soothe him, but Cas’ face remains stony. 

“It is not a joke, Dean. _Never_ attempt to harm yourself, especially for me.” Dean opens his mouth to interrupt but the ferocity in Cas’ eyes stops him, leaving the hunter swallowing his words down as Cas continues, lethal solemnity coloring his tone. “I _can’t_ lose you, do you understand? I would never be able to live in a universe without you by my side. Nothing is worth the sacrifice of your soul, nothing at all. You need to understand me when I say that you must never do something like that again. Your soul is precious and I won’t allow anything, including you, to harm it,” Cas finishes, holding Dean bruisingly tight. Dean’s never heard such devastation in his voice, such desperation for him to comply, and it both scares him and ignites his own.

“Yeah well, goes both ways, Cas,” Dean sniffed, staring at their entangled fingers. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save you or Sammy, no matter what — a damn angel blade to the gut ain’t gonna get you outta that. You promise not to pull a stunt like that again, I’ll do the same,” he compromises, voice cracking as he meets Cas’ eyes again.. Cas stares back, eyes hard, before they register the emotion Dean’s are swimming with and his gaze softens. Cas nods sharply, posture relaxing again, and then cups Dean’s face in one hand and kisses him, slowly at first but with a mounting passion, each spit-slick slide, each twist of his tongue deliberate and lingering. Dean kisses back with the same fervency, the bond radiating with protectiveness, and devotion from both sides. Cas showers their connection with compassion and fondness, showing Dean just how much he means, and it has the same effect as the first time, choking Dean up. The kiss breaks naturally and Dean curls himself closer around Castiel, drawing comfort from the simple fact that Cas is here, alive, right where he can keep him that way. As Cas clothes them with just another touch to his forehead, Dean thinks that the two of them can make it through anything, if there’s anything they’ve learned from this latest travesty.

Dean notices the room is as clean as it was when they first got it, free of the lamb corpse and gore, which means Cas’ Grace must truly be back and better than ever. The sound of the door to the motel room unlocking draws his attention and in steps Sam, arms laden with bags, one hand holding a cardboard drink holder filled with drinks. Judging by his calm, unsurprised state, Dean thinks his brother must’ve talked with Cas before he woke up. “Hey, Sammy,” Dean greets him, smiling widely at his brother. He’d thought he’d never see Sam again, but here he is, looking happier -- and more haggard -- than Dean’s seen him in a very long while. Sam sets down the bags and drinks and then comes over to their bedside, leaning over and enveloping them both in his giant arms in a tight bear hug. Dean chuckles and pats Sam’s back reassuringly, letting Sam bury his face against the older hunter’s collarbone and get a grip on himself, just as Dean has to do. When Sam finally pulls back, he’s hurrying to rub at his eyes and Dean might laugh if not for the tears in his own.  
“I’m so glad you two dumbasses are okay,” Sam beams, looking from Dean to Cas and back again, and Dean can’t help but join i. Even Cas is smiling crookedly, and the relief in the room is nearly tangible. “I brought us dinner. I figured if there’s anything you’d be up for it’d be burgers. I even remembered the pie,” Sam gives him another watery smile and grabs one of the bags, opening it up and pulling out the burgers and fries and handing them out. Sam even got a burger for Cas, though now that his mojo has recovered, he doesn’t need to eat.

Dean’s still too exhausted to even get his fumbling fingers to unwrap the burger, so Cas reaches over and does it for him, handing it back so Dean can smile gratefully and take a huge bite, closing his eyes and groaning at the flavor. Sam snickers around the straw he has in his mouth, and Cas squeezes Dean closer, thumbing rubbing circles at the back of his neck. The hunter devours the rest of his burger and goes for the fries, only just now realizing how starving he was. He hastily thanks his brother with his mouth full of fries and only receives a grimace in response, which sends him into a fit of laughter. Cas takes a few bites of his own burger and makes a face; Dean snickers, apparently things are back to tasting like atoms. If it’s what he has to deal with now that he’s healthy, Dean will gladly take it. 

He’s shocked at his own hunger, taking some of Sam’s fries when he nudges them over. As soon as he’s finished his own food and most of Sam’s — well, aside from the salad, that he didn’t touch — Dean look at Sam, then over at Cas, smiling broadly. Cas sends a wave of curiosity over the bond and smiles at him, while Sam swallows his last mouthful of salad and looks at Dean with an amused, knowing look. Dean finishes off his Coke and grins at the both of them, his heart swelling in his chest just because he’s so glad they’re both alive, safe, and happy, which leaves them to move on from this skeezy motel room. “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I think it’s time we head home.”

***

“Holy shit, Cas, what did you do?” Dean demands, simultaneous relief and gratitude singing through him as he catches sight of his Baby. She’s parked outside their motel, looking as good as she always does, not a dent or scratch in sight. Dean tries to summon up the memory of when he last saw her and what she looked like, and he’s fairly sure she resembled a crumpled pop can, wrecked even worse than that time they were hit by a semi-truck after their first showdown with the Yellow Eyed Demon. It doesn’t matter though, because now, she looks good as new, paint gleaming flawlessly in the mid-afternoon sun, glass clear, her frame whole and sleek as ever. Dean runs a hand over her hood and peers in through the windshield, marveling at the clean state of the interior. She’d been a total wreck, and now, it’s like they were never in the crash in the first place. Castiel places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, smiling at him in a way that makes Dean’s still recovering knees weak. 

“I returned her to her original state before the crash, and brought her back,” the angel explains, amusement in his eyes as Dean opens the door and slides behind the wheel, right where he belongs. Dean lets out a low, impressed whistle before leaning out to kiss Cas thankfully, enjoying the sweetness of it.  
“All while I was putting on pants?” Sam comes around to ride shotgun, shaking his head with a laugh, and Dean chuckles along. He can’t remember when he last felt so free, his shoulders light with both Cas and Sam safe and happy, just how they should be. The smiles come easier, the laughter louder and longer as they pile into their natural places and Dean turns the keys in the ignition, a rush of satisfaction going through him as he listens to the deep rumble of her engine. Last time they had to hot wire her to get her to start, so Cas must’ve also fixed the ignition too, seeing as she started so seamlessly. Dean fishtails around and pulls out onto the road, rolling his window down and then turning up the volume so he can fully appreciate the _Blue Oyster Cult_ blaring from the radio. Sam doesn’t even complain about the decibel level, an added bonus Dean makes the most of. 

He catches Cas’ eyes in the rearview mirror and smiles at his angel, receiving a pulse of warm affection over their bond in reply. The wind whips in through the windows, remarkably free of rain drops this time, and Dean drapes an arm out as he belts out the chorus. “I’ve seen suns that were burning and lives that were through—” he draws his arm back inside and drums his palms dramatically against the top of the steering wheel. “I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’ for you,” Dean winks at Cas in the mirror and Sam huffs a fond laugh, even turning the volume up a notch as Dean continues to bust out the next line. With the town and all of the curse’s trouble behind them, fully restored Baby homebound, Dean feels truly exhilarated and carefree for the first time in forever. Soon they’ll be home, where Sam can start researching another hunt and Dean can introduce Cas to his memory foam mattress, but until then, he’s just going to enjoy the drive. 

With his brother faithfully riding shotgun and his angel fully healed, Dean doesn’t doubt that they’re ready for whatever life throws at them next. 

Being stupidly in love only makes it more certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it!! TFW gets the happily-ever-after they deserve! :)
> 
> Alright guys, stick with me, because now I'm going to write some more unwarranted sappiness. I've got a few things I need to say in conclusion to this fic, because without the following, NPIMB wouldn't have been possible ~ 
> 
> My lovely, incredible, badass beta Astrophilla, who has truly been one of the best parts of writing this fic. Not only did she whip my work into shape with enthusiasm and god-like patience, but she's also become one of my dearest friends and I am honored to have her in my life. Since I apparently can't do without sappiness, I love you to pieces, girl, and you very much deserve your title as the James Bond of editing and writing (among other things ;) <3
> 
> Also, I want to thank every single person who has read, commented, left kudos, bookmarked, and stuck through this fic!! I love you all so much, and appreciate each and every one of your comments and kudos! Each comment has never failed to make my day, and I adore hearing your feedback!! You are all absolutely wonderful and I can't thank you enough for all of your support <3
> 
> Lastly, a shout out to codeine, which helped me power through both bronchitis and mouth surgery to write this. (also responsible for all of Dean's creative profanity throughout NPIMB, or at least that's what I'm blaming it on.)
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


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